The Droste Effect
by shipwrecked souls
Summary: Sometimes, France liked to think of emotions as complicated and intangible. But the thoughts that drove the both of them were just the same fears and inhibitions, forever reflected across borders and centuries. (Historical events centered on France and England up to modern times.)
1. prologue

_**The Droste Effect**_

* * *

 **\- A/N -**

 **First Hetalia fic here. Yay. Just going to get this out there.**

 **I know the title seems a bit arbitrary, but hopefully it will make a little more sense by the end.**

 **Obviously, there's no way to fit everything I wanted to cover** **in only twelve chapters (without sacrificing quality in the process). But hopefully this will suffice.**

 ** _Characters:_ ****France, England, Joan of Arc, Italy, America, Canada, and brief mentions of others.**

 _ **Genres:**_ **Angst, Hurt/Comfort. I dunno, something like that.**

 _ **Rating:**_ **T for language and violence (although not especially graphic). Most of this will not apply until later chapters, however.**

 ** _Disclaimer(s):_ As I'm not particularly well-versed in European history, there may (and probably will) be inaccuracies. I apologize in advance.**

 **Also, be aware of some slight deviation from canon for plot purposes—namely, how well France and England knew each other in their early days. In any case, t** **hey'll get a lot more chances to interact, starting from the next chapter.**

 **Anyway, without further ado, go enjoy this crappy fic. I feel so nervous posting this ._.**

* * *

 _1\. Antiquity Period_

* * *

 **Prologue**

 _ **Early 500s CE**_

Things changed.

Names. Lands. Borders. Even his age, although he had looked fourteen for quite a long time now. But the one thing that had been a constant in his life was his mother, however pathetic that sounded. Especially for someone as old as himself.

The truth was, Gaul was almost never around. Her visits were short and far-in-between, especially as she had a tendency to leave the following morning with nothing more than a few waves and a pat on the head. ("Romans," she would say in some kind of explanation while cracking her knuckles.) He knew he should have more to cling to in life than someone he barely saw, but then again, he and his mother were different from the rest.

At least, that was what he assumed. Gaul, for one, hardly seemed to know what to make of him. She had offered suggestions, of course— _those islands off the coast, that nice seaside city, and look, what about Aquitania, you could be Aquitania or Belgica..._

Excuses.

Just excuses to cover up a painful truth.

He had an inkling of the real answer, but didn't quite dare voice his thoughts out loud. The times, he knew, were changing again. For the first time, the Roman Empire's power was waning, a receding light source in the course of his world. Although clearly, it had already left its mark. Because the old days were gone forever, however much of a fight Vercingetorix had put up. And Gaul as a nation just wasn't what it used to be. Or however much it could be called a nation.

Like everything else, it had evolved.

The world was moving on, and it was leaving his mother behind.

One morning, Gaul left again and never came back. The recollection was blurred, fuzzy at the edges, seemingly as insignificant as any of his other memories—and it made him upset, mostly because he hadn't known he was saying goodbye. She had been dressed in a plain black dress that day. A bag slung over her shoulders, her characteristic cheerful expression on her face. To this day, he still didn't understand where she had gone.

Gaul had pushed open the door, a ray of sunlight spilling onto the floorboards. Paused, turned around, gave one last smile. And for once, she didn't put forward her stock explanation of "Romans".

Instead, she simply said, "Be good."

Whether she realized he would be replacing her soon, he would never know. Then she stepped outside, closing the door behind her, and he never saw her again.

* * *

And for the next few hundred years after Gaul left, he learned to operate in her place. Clovis the First had come and went, conquered kingdoms, established a dynasty that fell apart as soon as he died. The land was split again, this time into four pieces, and all the while, their Nation stood by and watched—still hiding behind what his mother had left him.

Francia had no idea why he existed. He had always seen those different squabbling kingdoms and tribes as independent among themselves, even when they occasionally banded together to face some common threat. And he had tried to find other explanations, traveling from land to land as he strove to keep himself out of trouble.

But he felt nothing.

Years went past, turning into decades.

Certain names rose to prominence before fading into obscurity again, a testament to the short grasp that mortals held over the realm. But Francia was still there, still alive behind the shifting scenes, and still, irritatingly, looking sixteen. He didn't believe that anyone realized who he was, and he wasn't sure whether he wanted that to change.

Another century turned. He changed his name once again, this time to France. At this point, he'd managed to convince himself that he would stay like this forever, always lurking in the shadows. That even if there were others in the world just like him, they would be too far away to reach.

And then the day came when he met a young, peculiar boy holding a rabbit.

* * *

 _ **900s CE**_

They would have met sooner or later as enemies on the battlefield. But miraculously, their first meeting did not involve swords and arrows and scars that never healed.

France was walking along the northern coast, watching the opposite shoreline listlessly with the wind whipping at his hair. He used to dream of leaving forever, of exploring the world for himself with just the clothes on his back. After all, he'd discovered that he was semi-immortal a long time ago, and almost no one even knew he existed.

 _Once they find you and realize who are you,_ her mother had said, _they won't let you out of their sight._

But something had stopped him.

Perhaps it was a sense of duty to his nation, although he wanted nothing to do with the politics and infighting and invasions. Perhaps this was the only place where he felt secure, like he at least knew where he was. Or perhaps he was just waiting for something to change.

Whatever the reason was, he'd stayed. And remained there for centuries.

At first glance, that day didn't appear any different from the rest. The sky was slightly overcast, and rain clouds looked as if they were pressing in from the north. But this was nothing unusual, and in any case, France didn't take it upon himself to speculate about the weather.

The first sign that someone was watching him came in the form of tiny footsteps.

France turned around in surprise, eyes wide. In front of him stood a little boy—several heads shorter than him and with messy blond hair swaying in the breeze as he clutched his rabbit protectively. He didn't look like anything special, but there was a certain defensiveness in his glare that France found both endearing and unnerving. Surely an eight-year-old shouldn't wear such an expression?

The boy suddenly asked something in a language France couldn't quite catch.

He frowned. "Excuse me?"

Still glowering pointedly at the other Nation, the boy repeated his question. Nevertheless, France couldn't understand him any better, but it did remind him of some Germanic languages. "Are you lost?"

The boy didn't even make an attempt to respond this time. He spun around, muttered something under his breath, and began skulking away.

"Wait..."

France trailed off.

The strange child didn't even look back once.

Shaking his head, he watched him disappear into the distance. Why the boy was here, alone, was anyone's guess. He couldn't have possibly gotten across the channel by himself. But France had better things to worry about.

* * *

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* * *

 **\- A/N -**

 ** _Reference(s):_**

 **[1] Aquitania and Belgica were both Roman provinces in Gaul. Today, what used to be Belgica is now Belgium, Luxembourg, and the Netherlands.**

 **[2] Vercingetorix was chieftain of the Arverni tribe (and many of the Gallic tribes in general) who led a revolt against the Romans after Julius Caesar's army conquered much of their land.**

 _ **Note(s):**_

 **[1] I believe the modern name for France had already been adopted by the 10th century, but feel free to correct me if I'm wrong.**

 **[2] England was likely speaking in some variation of Old English** **—which is to say,** **before the language became influenced by the Norman Conquests.**

 **(I know the Nations might speak some sort of 'special' language to communicate with each other, but I find this way a bit more interesting to write.)**

 **~ Reviews are appreciated ~**


	2. one

**\- A/N -**

 **Although Harold Godwinson was technically the successor to the throne of England, there was dissension over the validity of this title and** **Norman propaganda soon claimed** **that his crowning ceremony was illegitimate. As a result, Duke William II of Normandy and Harald Hardrada of Norway both challenged Harold for the throne.**

 **Tostig, Harold's brother, later joined forces with the Norwegian king in invading northern England. While they did hold** **York for some time, they were later both killed at the Battle of Stamford Bridge after the arrival of Harold's army.**

 **Meanwhile, William had begun his own invasion into southern England. By the time Harold finally emerged on the scene, having left part of his army up north, it was already too late.**

* * *

 _2\. Norman Conquest of England_

* * *

 **Chapter One**

 _ **October 14, 1066**_

 _ **Hastings, southern England**_

It was not a particularly fortunate day to be a soldier in Harold Godwinson's army.

England hadn't fought with them himself, of course—he was much too young to join, at least from a physical standpoint. But he'd watched from the distance, saw the destruction unfold before him, and for the first time, he felt real fear blossom inside him.

And it wasn't just fear. Something about the whole situation made him... agitated. He knew who he really was, of course—somehow, he wasn't human but the flesh-and-bone personification of a self-governing state. It wasn't until today, however, that he finally understood the magnitude of this statement.

 _No. Not agitated._

 _Asphyxiated._

There needed to be a word for the type of apprehension where one felt as if they were being deprived of air.

The longer England watched the arrows fly, the more he began to feel ill. It could have just been baseless suspicion, but coupled with the political drama from recent months, he was starting to suspect that his health relied on the conditions of his nation. Which, if anything, only served to make him more anxious.

At the start of the battle, England thought that they had a chance against William's army—even if the opponent's cavalry and archers outnumbered them drastically. But as the day grew on, his hopes were repeatedly dashed. They'd failed to launch a surprise attack, had fallen for a feigned retreat, and, to top it off, were visibly tiring. Clearly, the odds were no longer stacked in their favor.

And then it happened.

England didn't see the arrow coming in Harold's direction until it was too late... and neither did anyone else. The next thing he knew, it was over. Those who had seen it happen began retreating, but many more were still desperately trying to fend off the Norman invaders. England knew it should have come as a shock to him, but he just couldn't muster up any more emotion after seeing all those pointless deaths.

And besides, he already knew it was over.

William the Conqueror had won.

* * *

 **0~0~0**

* * *

 _ **December 25, 1066**_

 _ **Westminster Abbey, London**_

There were many places France had expected to be by the turn of the century. And yet there he was—in a church, of a foreign country no less, and about to watch the coronation of the new king of England.

This was not one of them.

Many years after he'd first met that peculiar little boy by the shoreline, they finally found him. A slip-up, a rumor, or something else? He would never know. And after so much time spent in solitude, France was prepared for anything they could throw at him. He had expected at least an interrogation of some sort, for all those centuries that he'd kept himself hidden.

Instead, the officials had let him off easy, simply telling him that from this moment on, he was to be the official personification of the Kingdom of France. (One of the giggling palace maids had later informed him that the reason for this was his 'charm', which France had not believed. At least, not back then.) And instead of being able to go wherever he wanted, he had to be occasionally accompanied by guards who didn't appear pleased to be there.

His mother's words were becoming reality, but it didn't impact him as much as he thought it would.

Then one day, he'd heard that William had finally done it. He'd conquered his way through southern England, and the throne was about to be for his taking. This didn't surprise him much—the man had always seemed to him like the type to take what he wanted. But what did was the fact that he was going to England as well for the coronation.

"Why?" France had asked.

One of his guards had looked down at him with a pointed look as if the answer were obvious. "Because you are the one who represents us," he said slowly, as if he were speaking to a rather dim-witted child. "And you need to meet your new subordinate."

 _Ah._

He swallowed.

 _That's right._

 _The personification of England._

And so he'd came, staring wide-eyed at the English countryside around him and wondering what this 'subordinate' would be like. France hadn't met many others like him besides his mother, and those he had consisted mainly of former Roman provinces. He'd known that what he was feeling was irrational and even borderline childish—especially since discovering the other day how easily he could attract friends when he put his mind to it.

But finding someone else in the same boat as him, even if they wouldn't be equals, was just too tempting.

* * *

As someone called for his attention, France quickly snapped back to the present. Someone shorter than him was now pushing his way through the crowd, flanked by a guard on his left. And with a start, he realized that this must be it. This must be the England that he'd heard about.

Except... something was familiar about him...

England came to a halt in front of him, feet spread apart in a fighting stance. Startled, France stared at him. Where had he seen this boy before? He searched his recollections, sifting through the piles of memories, but one stuck out at him in particular.

"You're... the boy I found on the beach that day," France realized.

He watched England's eyes carefully for any flicker of recognition. There came none. "I don't care," he replied, gritting his teeth.

Something was strange about what he'd just said, and it took France an extra moment to process it.

"You do speak some French!" he said incredulously.

"I don't care," England repeated.

"Or maybe not."

The man who'd escorted France there cleared his throat and glanced around before lowering his voice. "England, you will now be under his command. You two need not live together, but it would be best if you maintain some form of communication with each other."

 _Or, in other words, this whole 'subordinate' thing is only in name,_ France guessed, glancing over at the other boy, who was still scowling. _And does he ever stop glaring?_

He was about to ask, but the man had already left, having done what was required of him.

Immediately, England turned away from France with a huff to face the wall, arms crossed.

The latter Nation frowned, but decided that he might as well try to make conversation. "So... what were you doing on the shoreline that day?" he tried.

There was a slight pause, and then England sighed. "Shut up."

"Are these two expressions the only French you know?"

The other boy stopped to consider this for a moment, probably trying to understand what France had just said. He repeated it again, this time slower, and finally, England responded with a shrug.

 _Well. This is fun._

"In any case, you can just call me by name. No need for any fancy titles," France continued.

Still no response.

Apparently hair-flipping, which he bizarrely found usually sufficed to get him what he wanted, didn't seem to work on the younger boy. Nor did any of his other 'tricks'. Noting that England seemed to clench his fists even tighter, France began trying to get a rise out of his 'subordinate'. He settled on the first thing his mind came to.

"Or you could call me Big Brother France if you want."

It worked.

England spun around immediately, eyes narrowed—but it wasn't the reaction that France was looking for. Instead, he stood there for a moment longer, as if choosing his next words carefully.

And then, quietly, he asked, "Why?"

France was about to respond, then abruptly stopped.

There was a hard glint in his eye that hadn't been there before. And slowly, the older Nation realized that this question wasn't about names.

It was about why they were here in the first place.

 _Why a man and his army had taken it upon themselves to charge into a foreign land and take it for themselves._

France took a deep breath, then looked England in the eye as hard as he could.

"Don't ask me."

The younger Nation suddenly looked away and focused on the floor.

"I wasn't involved in the decision-making. Go ask the man who's sitting on the throne."

It didn't matter. His words didn't matter. Even if England had understood them, he wouldn't have believed it anyway.

France watched as the boy shoved his way past him and disappeared back into the crowd without another word.

* * *

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* * *

 **\- A/N -**

 **Sorry if France and England acted slightly OOC in their interactions.** **I just assumed that their personalities couldn't have stayed exactly the same throughout the whole of history, partly because certain stereotypes (and by extension, the corresponding aspects of their character)** **didn't even exist yet.**

 _ **Note(s):**_

 **[1] I know the actual battle took place several miles away from Hastings, but I simply put the location as such for convenience.**

 **[2] No one really knows how Harold died, but some ancient sources claimed that it was an arrow to the eye.**

 **~ Reviews are appreciated ~**


	3. two

**\- A/N -**

 **The Hundred Years' War (1337 - 1453)** **was one of the longest conflicts in European history, being commonly divided into three main periods: The Edwardian War, the Caroline War, and the Lancastrian War. Part of it began with disputes over English fiefs in France (which were usually in the form of land) since there were kings in the former who were vassals to kings in the latter.**

 **The reason that this came to be was because English kings used to be of French origin—Norman conquest, remember? And French monarchs didn't like that their vassals had so much power, so they started confiscating land and whatnot.**

 **(Also, there was some royal drama going on about the succession to the French throne, and that was a key factor as well, but I don't want this explanation to take up too much space.)**

 **For those of you who might not know what I'm talking about, feudalism back then consisted of a system of lords, vassals, and fiefs. In short, lords granted their land (fiefs) to vassals who, in return, would provide them with some sort of service (usually militarily).**

 **Once again, be aware of potential historical inaccuracies and other similar mistakes...**

* * *

 _3\. Hundred Years' War, Part I_

* * *

 _A city on the inconstant billows dancing..._

 _For so appears this fleet majestical._

 _\- Shakespeare, describing the fleet carrying Henry V on his way to invade France_

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

And from that point on, France hardly ever got a chance to speak with England—the main reason being that the latter simply did not wish to. Somehow, he suspected that the boy would hold a grudge against him for a long time coming.

On the few occasions where they did get to meet and converse, their exchange consisted almost entirely of stilted argumentation with an undercurrent of tension. Although England had been learning a bit of French, what with it being the language of the upper class, he still seemed to prefer shrugging or glaring. And both had discovered that they could be surprisingly petty at times.

Even France himself was beginning to tire of it all. If the other Nation wanted nothing to do with him, then so be it. It wasn't as if he were desperate for attention—in fact, as he was discovering, girls appeared to flock to him at a rather startling rate. They could just as well leave each other alone.

It would be for the best.

In any case, he figured that he would soon have little to do with England anyway, especially as the years grew on and things began to change. Eventually, even the Anglo-Norman dynasty finally came to its end. Being neighbors didn't necessarily require them to interact.

Hardly any time passed before France realized that he had never been so wrong in his life.

Thinking back, he remembered believing that the monarchical tension would eventually dissipate by itself. He would have scoffed at this now—things were never this simple. But he was still comparatively young back then, and naive.

Truth be told, the red flags had been plentiful. Conflict always occurred when a king died without male heirs, which had been evident enough when Edward and Philip both claimed the throne for themselves—one an English prince and the other a Frenchman. While the latter did eventually win, the situation was still far from resolved.

Especially when a quarrel broke out between the two that never died out.

* * *

With another day came another controversy.

But apparently, Philip confiscating land in Gascony had been the last straw.

France wasn't quite sure what to feel. On one hand, he knew this was only life as a Nation—there wasn't anything special about his circumstances. Wars were a fact of their existence, and friends could potentially become enemies overnight. It made him wonder how much control they really had over their relationships, and how many of the decisions that they made were their own.

And on the other hand... he supposed he was concerned.

 _No. Not concerned._

The personification of the Kingdom of France was anxious.

He kept telling himself that he had seen wars before, seen bloodshed, but it didn't help that he knew this was the end of his relationship with England... whatever it had been. Mutual dislike or an odd companionship? He didn't know, and he didn't care that much. Wasn't _supposed_ to care.

Either way, it was all over now.

They had officially turned into enemies without saying a word to each other.

* * *

 _Auberoche, 1345._

 _Crécy, 1346._

 _Calais, 1347._

 _Poitiers, 1356._

 _Auray, 1364._

A long series of predominantly English victories, punctuated occasionally by the signing of a treaty and a rare few years of peace.

 _Ceasefires never last._

France had barely gone to the battlefield himself. Partly because he didn't need to, and partly because he didn't know what he would see there. But as the English resumed their war efforts again in 1415, he managed to convince himself that he was being cowardly and selfish. What was he doing, hiding behind mortals to protect him? France couldn't die even if he wanted to—something he knew from experience.

And so, with renewed vigor, he'd finally convinced them to let him go.

* * *

 **0~0~0**

* * *

 _ **October 25**_

 _ **Artois, France**_

 _Agincourt, 1415._

It was the day that would matter, but not in the way he originally thought.

France took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves.

On the opposite end of the battlefield was the English army, looking surprisingly tired and disheveled. A few makeshift tents were scattered across the other side of the clearing, but they were empty now. They'd spent the previous day delaying the upcoming battle, waiting for the approach of troops they were sure would come but never did.

Strangely, no one around him seemed especially worried.

As France gripped his crossbow tighter, someone tapped on his shoulder and he gave a start.

Frowning, he turned around. It appeared to be one of the noblemen who were co-commanding the army. He squinted down at the personification of his nation for a moment, readjusting his hold on the reins as the horse snorted.

"Back of the line," he stated flatly. "The rearguard."

Before France could have a chance to interrupt, the nobleman was already moving on.

Curious, France turned back around. The rearguard, he noted, consisted mainly of archers and crossbowmen who were being crowded into the sides of the narrow clearing. He began picking his way through the crowd to join them, while the commanders steadily continued to ignore them.

"What are we supposed to do?" he asked one of the archers, bewildered.

The man simply shrugged. "Change of plans. We're not supposed to fire—the site's too narrow and we're not needed anyway."

France blinked. "So we do nothing?"

"Yes."

"And stand by?"

"Look, I didn't give the orders."

And then a shout suddenly came from the front.

"They're coming!" someone yelled. "They're coming!"

Someone cursed beside him.

There was no denying it. The flags waving in the air and the sound of clanging metal spoke for itself.

And France, with a growing feeling of dread, realized that they had vastly overestimated themselves.

For one, the terrain had not exactly stacked the odds in their favor. The land, recently plowed, was churning with wet mud. And as both armies engaged each other, the English began firing their longbows from the sidelines, effectively slowing their opponents from pushing them further back.

"The problem is that this field is so tightly packed," France muttered.

The archer sighed. "Did anyone ask you to be commentary?"

The longer they watched, the longer they realized that the situation was becoming hopeless. France suddenly began wondering if this was what it felt like for the common soldier, how it must feel to not be in control of anything, to be able to have their existence erased on the whim of a stranger—and knowing that they, too, were guilty.

It soon became clear that the arrival of a second wave of soldiers would just worsen matters. Gritting his teeth, France promised himself yet again that next time, he would be at the front line no matter what. Even if he ended up fatally injured, he was a Nation. He wouldn't stay dead for long. And...

 _It would be better than doing nothing._

Someone suddenly halted in front of him, and a shadow fell across his vision.

He heard several of the archers around him backing away. And somehow, he knew who it was without even looking up.

"I didn't think you would actually come here," the voice said in English.

It was him, alright.

France gripped his crossbow as if to reassure himself that it was still there. _Steady. Don't need to let him know that you're scared. Remember, you can't die. Keep calm and pretend like you don't care and..._

Bracing himself, he looked up into the dark green eyes of the Nation of England.

Having not met for years, France was struck for a moment at how much the boy had grown. Except he wasn't a boy anymore. In fact, he was somehow already around the same height as him. His messy blond hair still stuck up in strange places and he still had that characteristic scowl, but the similarities ended there.

If he hadn't known better, France would have thought him to be just another seasoned warrior on the battlefield.

"Me neither," France responded, wincing at his own heavy accent. "So I suppose both of us were wrong."

England studied him for a moment, as if unsure what to do next, then sighed and drew his own sword.

Several of the archers behind France gasped and quickly fumbled to ready their own weapons, but England silenced them with a single glare. "This is between the two of us," he insisted in fluent French.

Apparently the boy—no, the man—had been practicing.

France swallowed, then held up his crossbow rather pitifully. "I-I don't have a sword," he stuttered, still in English.

"That's true," England mused, letting out a harsh chuckle. "Under normal circumstances, chivalry might have it that I let you go... but these aren't normal circumstances anymore, are they?"

"Because I can't die?"

England took a step forward.

"That's a part of it, I suppose. And those outdated rules just don't bind us the way it did before."

"What?"

He gestured vaguely over his shoulder.

"What is that supposed to mean?" France scowled.

And then he realized.

The full reality of the situation finally dawning upon him, he realized that he had to stay calm. This was still war, and still standing before him was the enemy. Blind anger wouldn't get him anywhere.

Steadying his nerves, he said quietly, "What are you doing to those men you're taking prisoner?"

Silence suddenly descended upon the two.

Both Nations stared at each other with unreadable expressions, a pair of twin grimaces with a touch of indignation. The outcome of Agincourt was already set in stone, but clearly, other battles were not. Something about the other man's gaze was slightly unnerving, though, and France quickly took a step back.

And that was when England attacked.

His sword, a twenty-eight inch long blade of steel, was reduced to a mere blur. France barely had time to hold up his crossbow as a last line of defense.

England rammed the sword down on the spot where his opponent's head would have been, and metal met wood.

There came a sickening crunch as the bow split right in two.

Before the other Nation could make another attempt, France quickly backpedaled away several steps.

"I know Henry did something to them," he gasped.

England swung the sword at his shoulder next, a move he barely dodged. Instead of responding directly, he said in a neutral tone, "Your precious commander would have done the same."

"What?"

"The prisoners outnumbered us, you halfwit," England hissed, flipping the sword around in his hand and slamming France in the gut with its hilt. The latter cursed loudly, slipping on the mud and nearly falling. The heavy armor he wore was not helping matters. "If he hadn't killed them, they would have attacked us back."

"But—"

England took another step forward, and France visibly winced.

"And don't even try to deny what your side has done to us before."

The latter Nation swallowed. He considered trying to get back on his feet, but the mud was practically sucking him in—and he didn't want to distract his gaze from the man in front of him, even for a second.

 _This is it._

 _This is where I die my sixth humiliating death in a row._

 _Sitting in a pile of mud, weaponless, while the enemy remains casual enough to keep up a conversation._

Finally, he lowered his head.

And waited for the blade to come crashing down on him.

Yet it never did.

Slowly, France raised his chin.

England was looking down at him with a strange expression—not quite pitying, not quite remorseful—but still with a scornful edge that made it clear who was in charge.

"I have better things to do than deal with you," he finally said, sheathing his sword and turning away.

The fight was drawing to a close. Not just in their corner of the battlefield but among bloodstained mud and tattered flags. France felt certain that many of those soldiers he saw, unlike him, would never rise again.

"Why?" he asked quietly.

It was a temptation of fate.

The ignition of an enemy's internal debate at a time when such a decision should not be questioned.

England turned around, slowly, the gray skies reflected in his emerald eyes. Setting his expression back into a scowl, he replied, "I might not believe in the code of chivalry anymore, but I still have standards. I don't fight little princesses."

And then he left, a trail of upturned mud in his wake.

* * *

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* * *

 **\- A/N -**

 **I tried to keep the history lessons to a minimum so I wouldn't bore you, but I felt like I had to talk a little about the politics of the war too.**

 **The specific battle information, I took from Wikipedia—for example, the terrain, the battle formations, the tactics.**

 **Next up will be part two of the Hundred Years' War, in which we finally get to Joan of Arc...**

 **~ Reviews are appreciated ~**


	4. three

**\- A/N -**

 **Joan of Arc, whom you've probably heard of, was a young girl who supposedly received visions telling her to aid France in the Hundred Years' War.**

 **Soon after she was sent on a relief mission, sieges were lifted, unexpected victories were won, and many people were convinced that she had supernatural assistance—whether in the form of God or the Devil, depending on whether one was French or English.**

 **Warning: poorly-written deviation from common fanon ideas about Joan's relationship with France (and England), and a rather anticlimatic confrontation.**

* * *

 _4\. Hundred Years' War, Part II_

* * *

 _If I am not, may God put me there; and if I am, may God so keep me._

 _\- Joan of Arc at her trial, when asked if she was in God's grace_

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

It would be an understatement to say that circumstances were progressing poorly.

After Agincourt, things had fallen apart even further. A final defeat in the Hundred Years' War seemed inevitable, and France's personal views were no more optimistic.

Something about that battle had numbed him. Perhaps being shoved into the mud by the enemy while on the losing side of a war had such effects on him. And he knew that hoping for the tables to turn was illogical, but he wished for it nonetheless.

Which was why, when he received word of something that might have once earned a round of scoffs and nothing more, he was suddenly desperate for it to be true.

* * *

 _1429_

 _The Royal Court, Chinon_

It was a private meeting between two.

Or at least, that was what it was supposed to be.

Charles VII stood at the back of the conference hall, his Nation standing a little ways off. In front of them was a seventeen-year-old farm girl, hands poised by her side and her dress just barely touching the floor.

Incidents like these were not everyday occurrences. But then again, these were no ordinary circumstances.

"Joan of Arc," Charles greeted.

France turned a fraction of a degree to study his expression. He couldn't determine yet what the king thought of the girl, but he thought he could sense a sliver of hope. "And I'm Francis Bonnefoy," he quickly added. "An..."

Charles coughed. "Adviser," he finished.

Joan raised an eyebrow, but didn't raise any further questions.

"My sincerest apologies for coming in such a state," she said, bowing. "I had to make my way here in a hurry."

"Baudricourt gave you an escort, yes?"

She nodded. "I managed to convince him to let me go after my prediction on the Battle of Rouvray. As you can see, our nation is in dire need, and I believe that I am the one meant to help it recover."

France winced without the slightest understanding of why. Joan was clearly confident—she stated everything as if it were fact, and in a neutral tone that suggested apathy. But her eyes were alight with an impassioned glow, and she held herself in a manner that didn't seem characteristic of a peasant.

"Do you have any proof?"

"That is dependent on you, Your Majesty," Joan replied coolly, seeming undeterred by this question. "Sir Baudricourt found my previous prediction sufficient enough. If you have any remaining doubts about the authenticity of my visions, then I would be more than willing to undergo any investigation you see fit."

There was a long pause.

Charles's brow furrowed for a moment as he considered this, then let out a long sigh.

France, for one, was taken aback. Whether or not her words held any real truth, her demeanor clearly gave off the impression that she knew what she was doing. And they had tried everything else, failed everything else, arrogantly assumed that one of their tactics would work when none of them did. _What if..._

Finally, the king folded his arms and looked Joan right in the eye.

"I will make my decision when I have informed the rest of the royal court," he finally said. "Know that there will be background examinations. The rest is up to you."

Joan bowed, seemingly satisfied. "May I leave?"

"Please do."

As France watched the girl stride away toward the double doors, shoes clicking softly, he felt a sudden prick of curiosity. She possessed a personality unlike any he had ever seen before, but perhaps it was exactly what made her mysterious in his eyes. _And maybe, just maybe..._

Turning back toward Charles, he raised an eyebrow.

The king shrugged.

Making a split-second decision, France quickly began hurrying after Joan. Just as he slid to a halt behind her, she pushed open the doors and a ray of sunlight spilled in.

"I need to talk to you," he said quietly.

Joan turned around slowly.

For a moment, her short hair caught the light, a bright flaxen shower that sparkled in the sun like gold or pyrite. And then it was gone, and she pursed her lips, studying him.

"You... are not really just an adviser, are you?" she asked, ignoring his statement.

France's eyes widened.

"I apologize, but I have other duties to attend to. May we meet at another time."

And before he could answer, Joan quickly bowed, stepped out and closed the door.

* * *

 _Gold or pyrite?_

* * *

First and foremost, almost as soon as Joan learned about the relief mission at the siege of Orléans, she received the approval to leave along with the army. And then, true to Charles's word, an investigation was held—which she walked out of with no suspicion and no charges.

Nine days later, the siege was lifted.

France had been astonished, to say the least—despite his initial doubts, her role in the development of these events was undeniable. And when he inquired the king on the subject, he merely shook his head in disbelief.

As time went on, she and her army slowly recaptured more and more enemy territory. Reportedly, Joan often gave strategic advice to the commanders—which must have been sound, as evident by the strengthened loyalty of cities in their path. Somehow, she really had managed to turn the tides.

 _He remembered smiling for what seemed like the first time in years. He remembered satisfaction over bitter vengeance, and then a brief flash of guilt that he quickly shut down. Because this was what Nations lived for._

 _...He remembered hope._

And then one day, the water receded.

Joan was captured on May 23, 1430.

She'd been ambushed that day. Surrounded by Burgundians on all sides, surrender was the only option. Some part of France knew that her success was bound to run out sooner or later, but it still _hurt_. Joan had become that bright ray of light for him just as the situation seemed hopeless, and there always surrounded her an aura of intense fire that felt strangely like flowers and flame at once.

The fact that someone was so willing to risk their life for him, even if it wasn't personal, astounded France more than he could admit.

 _Because, after all, what am I if not the face of my nation?_

The English eventually negotiated with the Burgundians in acquiring the new prisoner of war. Attempts to rescue her followed swiftly, but none succeeded. And in the end, she became the subject of a trial on charges of heresy.

Requests for equal representation among the partisans were denied.

Opposition to the trial was quickly shot down.

And there was no evidence.

But none of it mattered.

A year after her capture, Joan was condemned to a death sentence. And yet in that moment, France knew that the girl with the fiery eyes would never die in his memory.

* * *

 _May 30, 1431_

 _The Old Marketplace, Rouen_

For centuries afterward, France would question why he'd decided to come to Joan's execution. And the only answer that came to mind was that there was no other alternative.

She was about to die. And it was technically his fault, whether she knew it or not.

So he might as well be there when it happened.

Incidentally, the first person France saw in the crowd was England. For a brief second, he had a strange desire to walk up behind the other Nation and strangle him. But he was saved from having to make a decision.

England suddenly turned, his eyes catching France's. They lingered for a moment, stormy green against blue, before they widened and he quickly looked down.

Eventually, the younger Nation took a deep breath, felt around for something under his cloak, and gestured for France to come over.

And he did.

It was strange, meeting England like this when he could still vividly remember the sound of the snapping crossbow. France shivered, and reminded himself to stay alert. "I know you have a weapon," he said in stiff English, pointing at the other's cloak. It clearly wasn't large enough to be a sword. _Perhaps some small knife?_

England stared at him vacantly. Somehow, he could never tell what went on behind those emerald eyes. And then, seemingly coming to a decision, he slowly reached under his cape.

When he pulled back out, what he had in his hand wasn't a sword.

It wasn't a knife.

It wasn't even a weapon at all.

A small silver cross sat in his palm, reflecting the light of the rising sun. It seemed so minuscule, so insignificant that for a moment, France was tempted to laugh.

But then he saw something out of the corner of his eye.

Saw Jeanne d'Arc herself, bound to a pillar by her wrists and waist.

Saw the way her eyes were flickering over to them, eyebrows raised, her dress torn at the edges yet still blowing in the breeze. Saw how unafraid she seemed, even with the threat of imminent death.

And that was when France understood.

Still being unnervingly silent, England walked over to the platform of logs and awkwardly slipped the cross into a fold of her dress. For the first time, France saw surprise plainly etched in her expression. And she wasn't alone. As England made his way back, the older Nation said, incredulously, "I thought..."

He trailed off.

England had turned away. For a long moment that stretched into eternity, he stood there, eyes focused on something only he could see. Eventually, he said slowly, "She's a sworn enemy. My enemy. But not a heretic, and that's what matters in this trial."

* * *

 **0~0~0**

* * *

A short while later, the ashes of the Maid of Orléans were cast into the Seine.

* * *

 **.**

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* * *

 **\- A/N -**

 **Believe me on this, I feel incredibly shoddy for giving France and Joan so little interaction—but I wouldn't have been able to capture their relationship in a single chapter (plus I also partly wanted to retain the latter's air of mystery).**

 ** _Note(s):_**

 **[1] Obviously, I don't know who Joan was as a person, but from the things she said and did, I wrote her as someone who, although thoughtful and well-meaning, was also calm and collected in a confident way.**

 **[2] I also found a segment on Wikipedia that notes how an English soldier gave Joan a small cross before she died—so I've used artistic license here and made it England himself, even though I don't know the context in which this happened.**

 **~ Reviews are appreciated ~**

 **(Please? This pathetic writer here lives on social validation lol.)**


	5. four

**\- A/N -**

 **I couldn't simply just skip past several centuries at once, and neither could I cover everything, so I had to end up picking only one event. I guess this is it, then.**

 **This chapter will probably be tedious because of the sheer amount of history I had to depict (and my general ineptitude at summarizing), but I promise the next one will be better. (Hint: North America will come into the equation, so get ready for a long chapter.)**

* * *

 _5\. Italian Wars_

* * *

 **Chapter Four**

Right before Joan of Arc was set ablaze, France and England had shared a quiet moment together. The first one they ever had.

It was awkward. Neither had been obligated to show any sympathy toward each other. But despite all odds, England had been the first one to extend the olive branch... a gesture of respect for the same girl he was supposed to loathe.

And in those instants, the two Nations weren't enemies.

Just immortals who both felt equally broken.

* * *

Their respective countries soon moved on from the Hundred Years' War, or at least they pretended that they had. All France knew was that there was no way he could possibly forget Joan's death anytime soon.

Years went past, once again never failing to astonish him with how easy it was to lose track. New eras began. And although recent happenings inside his own country seldom interested France (he had long grown tired of all the aristocratic squabbles, as had most other Nations), he could tell that things were beginning to change.

Around this time, he was gradually introduced to the other personifications.

Of course, he had already met a few close neighbors such as Spain. (France had personally enjoyed the company of the strangely cheerful man... at least up until a series of wars where they became opponents and contact grew minimal.) But while other Nations began to play a larger role in his life, France found himself attempting to ignore his relations with England.

Those fleeting moments from the past were gone.

 _Gone._

France had since become well accustomed to fighting. He hardly considered himself bothered by this, or at least that was what he thought. But despite his age, there still existed concepts about being a Nation which he could not reconcile with his experience.

And one day, a question was brought up that France had no way of answering.

* * *

 _ **1493**_

Before the Italian Wars had broken out, Veneziano often took it upon himself to visit "Big Brother France" whenever he had the chance. (The nickname had originally started out as a somewhat ironic joke which Italy had then unexpectedly taken seriously.)

He truly was the most innocent child that France had ever seen. If he wasn't painting, he was sleeping, and if he wasn't sleeping, then he was splashing around in some river or another. And whenever serious matters entered the conversation, Italy always had an excuse ready to change the subject... something he was uncannily skilled at.

Still, France decided, Veneziano was only a child. A child with a rich, plentiful land that was too weak to defend itself. Something that, for the surrounding countries, would be theirs for the taking. If past experiences were to be trusted, which France had no reason to doubt, then Italy would soon be a prize to be won.

Glancing over at Veneziano, who was lying spread-eagled on the floor, France tried to convince himself to adopt this new frame of mind. Weaker countries became annexed by stronger ones all the time, and the child appeared too daft to hold grudges. Part of him hated this mentality, but it was necessary if he wanted to survive as a Nation.

Then again, none of this had anything to do with them as individuals...

"Hey, Big Brother France?"

Said Nation raised an eyebrow. "Mm?"

He was starting to grow fond of the nickname, and had previously attempted to persuade other young Nations to call him this as well. Unsurprisingly, this had resulted in varying degrees of success, one of the reactions being a punch to the face.

"I'm a little worried about what is happening at home," Italy said.

France abruptly froze.

"Everyone looks stressed and I don't think I'm supposed to be visiting you and Big Brother Spain anymore. Is there going to be another fight? Grandpa Rome was always fighting and then he didn't return and I don't want something bad like that to happen again."

Reassuringly, France managed a weak smile, a stark contrast to the tension he felt. How did Veneziano always manage to read his mind like that? Moreover, if the child ever had to face annexation threats one day from...

 _No._

First, he needed to calm down.

"Ah, you will be fine!" France laughed nervously, in what he obviously thought was a comforting way. His hands were shaking slightly. "No doubt about that."

Italy blinked, then settled back down on the floor again. "Alright."

In response, France let out a breath that he hadn't even known he was holding. Cursing silently in his head, he leaned back against the couch and sighed. Occasionally, he wondered just how much Veneziano really knew behind that innocent exterior. And why did he even care so much? It wasn't as if Italy were particularly close to him. Perhaps it was simply about the way the child looked up to him. The Nation had certainly never been admired like this before, and knowing that he was about to lose that respect so quickly was depressing.

Either way, France did like being referred to as an older brother.

Especially in a way that someone else would never have done.

* * *

That was the last time that France would see Veneziano in nearly half a century.

Soon after the child's last visit, the Italian Wars finally reared its hideous head. Ever since the Hundred Years' War, it had been made mandatory for France to engage the enemy in major conflicts. After all, there were a lot of ways one could use an immortal to achieve their own ends, and Charles VIII recognized this.

He was initially worried—after all, France would not wish to happen upon another Nation in battle, even with his swordsmanship skills. But as it turned out, their southern advance into Italy went largely unchallenged. Hardly anyone even dared to stop them, and France was astounded at how easily it went.

At least, until the army sent ahead a few messengers to negotiate terms of surrender, and they came back as neatly chopped pieces.

Frankly, France was as shocked as the rest of them, just not over the situation itself. It was the outrage that surprised him. He had the suspicion that their luck would run out sooner or later, and this was just the confirmation of the inevitable.

Nonetheless, in response, on February 9, 1495, a combined force of French soldiers and Swiss mercenaries sacked Naples.

It was only the beginning of what was to come.

The League of Venice was formed soon after to oppose future French advances, with the inclusion of nations from Spain to the Holy Roman Empire to, eventually, England. Predictably, there swiftly followed a long series of wars, a majority of which France was made to fight in.

He would be lying if he said that he got out of them unscathed. In fact, his personal death count was hovering somewhere around ten.

Despite this, France still couldn't stop himself from wondering about his fellow Nations—those he thought of as friends, and those he didn't. He tried not to think too much about Italy, and had no way of knowing whether the child hated him now, but assumed that he would no longer be called "Big Brother".

As for Spain, he hoped their friendship wouldn't be ruined forever by their rivalry. After the wars were ended with the Treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis, Spain ended up taking control over a large section of Italy. Some part of France wasn't sure whether to feel relief or disappointment over this.

And then there was England.

* * *

Around the time of the English Reformation, internal religious conflict occurred across both sides of the Channel—one a newly Protestant nation and the other remaining Catholic.

Thinking back on the St. Bartholomew's Day massacre still made France wince.

His relations with England's brother, Scotland, were surprisingly positive, both politically and personally. Despite his speech being practically incomprehensible to France's ears, he was relatively laid-back and appeared slightly amused whenever England was mentioned.

But surprisingly, his next encounters with the island Nation were not in the midst of battle.

Although tensions still ran high, their respective countries did periodically side with each other against the Spanish. This was enough for them to be able to occasionally meet and converse. The first few times had been awkward, both Nations trying in vain to distract their minds from the past.

But then they spent more time together. In between wars and treaties and territorial disputes, they talked. And argued, and fought, and exchanged snide quips. At first it was only a cover to keep their thoughts off other events, but as time went on, it became more and more apparent that the other's presence was being taken for granted.

Apparently, the language barrier had broken down.

It was a strange relationship—France didn't usually start arguments, but something about England was provoking enough. They had grown, and their most distant memories had been shed long ago. The small boy with the characteristic scowl was gone, and so was the green cloak that was once draped over his shoulders.

Once they found something to argue over, they could keep going back and forth for hours. France had long since stopped seeing England as a younger Nation, but instead only as a rival, pure and simple. Some part of him still remembered the early days of their youth, but this would then be quickly shut down. There was a reason for Nations to be the way they were—and in any case, England really was aggravating.

This time was no different.

 _He looks increasingly conceited as time goes on,_ France noted bitterly. _Although there is an undercurrent of exhaustion in his posture._

The first thing England did was size him up.

"We are not in war right now, Arthur," the older Nation remarked in his own language.

England crossed his arms and huffed. "Speak English."

So nothing had changed after all.

"Well, I suppose it is nice to see you again," France said as he raised an eyebrow. He made sure to exaggerate his accent as much as possible. "Did you miss me?"

"Oh yes," England replied, a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. "And hopefully we'll meet again soon. Preferably while I stand over your dead body."

France frowned, pretending to be troubled, then placed a hand over his heart dramatically. The time when he would have been bothered by such statements was long over. "That was highly uncalled for."

"True," England agreed. "Very much like your existence."

* * *

And when they did meet in battle, they were more than willing to fight.

Battle cries sounded, tattered cloth waved in the breeze, and weapons lay abandoned on the ground next to them. France ignored all of this, stepping forward with a sword in his hands as chaos reigned around them. "Remind me, Arthur," he sighed, "who won last time?"

England snarled in response, swinging his own blade forward in a sudden burst of anger. The other Nation was barely able to deflect this move, but managed to put on a condescending smile anyway.

"Not a princess anymore as you say, huh?" he laughed.

For a brief moment, England stood there in silent contemplation, raising his bushy eyebrows as he appeared to ponder over something. And then it was gone, and he shook his head, as if leaving behind his thoughts. "No. But still terrible at fighting."

"We will see about that."

The sound of their clanging swords could be heard even after the battle had ended.

* * *

 **.**

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* * *

 **\- A/N -**

 **I tried to cram in so much history while still keeping enough character interaction to keep my readers interested. I promise this won't ever happen again in the future—this is what happens when you century-hop.**

 **~ Reviews are appreciated ~**

 **(Thoughts? Questions? Concrit? Anything?)**


	6. five

**\- A/N -**

 **The magnitude of the Seven Years' War was pretty large, having covered several different continents in all** **. Britain led one alliance, with France leading the other. Raise your hand if you were surprised at this.**

 **Anyhow, much of the conflict could be traced back to the aftermath of the War of Austrian Succession. (Maria Theresa, Prussia, Silesia, vital regions... that's all from canon. And hopefully you remembered more than the vital regions part.)** **Britain joined with Prussia, they won against France and a multitude of other countries, everyone was happy except they weren't and did I really just summarize the Seven Years' War this quickly?**

 **As for the American Revolution, I don't believe I need to explain it in detail. Although** **I shouldn't assume things, since I'm American and possibly apt to bias.**

 **Anyway, y** **ou don't even really need the information to understand the chapter in the first place.**

* * *

 _6\. Seven Years' War / American Revolutionary War_

* * *

 _"Oh my God! It's all over."_

 _\- a journal entry of Lord Frederick North, on the surrender of Cornwallis at Yorktown_

* * *

 **Chapter Five**

In all the centuries that France knew England, he had only seen the other Nation break down once.

It was not due to him, but to an idealistic dreamer who did not fully understand the impact of his words. And yet, it _was_ his fault—the fact that America had broken away and achieved the freedom he strove for.

The fact that the British Empire was kneeling in the mud on October 16, 1781, his uniform stained with tears instead of blood.

It could have started with the Stamp Act, or perhaps when gunshots fired out into the panicked crowd on March 5. The roots of the revolution could hardly be traced back to a single event. It might have simply been fate from the moment they stepped onto colonial land.

What America called the French and Indian War was, to them, only another part of the Seven Years' War raging in Europe. The colonies in those respects were little more than what the two rivals used to achieve their own ends... or at least that was how he saw it.

Of course he, along with the other European powers, had been taking notice of the New World for a long time.

The fact that so much potential territory lay an ocean away was certain to interest any Nation.

* * *

 _ **April 16, 1731**_

"Canada has never meant anything to you, has he?" the Englishman accused. "You only ever exploit him."

Said Nation was sitting under a tree ahead of them, hopefully too far away to hear. France merely scowled at this, edging away from England on the stone fence where they sat. "At least I don't spoil America. Or pretend to actually care about him."

"Excuse me? You're only jealous that he appreciates me. Tell me, who was it that America chose when we asked him?"

France laughed bitterly. "He was simply young and compassionate. Which I understand. Anyone would feel sorry for you."

Evidently, this was the wrong thing to say.

Faster than one could blink, England spun around and seized the other Nation's collar, frills and all. "Remember who you're talking to," he growled, hands shaking. France visibly winced, seemingly surprised at this sudden outburst. "Don't mess with me again."

"Oh my, when did you become so egotistical?"

"What?"

"You're still the same bad-tempered child you were centuries ago."

Instead of responding, England gripped the other Nation's collar even tighter.

"I've insulted you before," France scowled, shoving him away. "What happened? Not enough sleep?"

"You little—"

The situation might have escalated even further, if it weren't for America's sudden appearance. The small blond boy abruptly ran into their range of sight, a small white hare in his arms. Skidding to a halt in front of the two Nations, he happily exclaimed, "Look! I found a rabbit!"

The tense atmosphere evaporated.

England immediately bent down to pat America on the head. As he spun around to glare at France, the Nation shrugged back with a hint of mockery in his smile. "Why don't you show it to your brother?" he suggested, ignoring his rival, tentatively stroking the rabbit behind its fluffy ears. "I'm sure he'll be happy."

"Okay!" America chirped, glancing over at Canada, who was still sitting under the tree. "But he looks happy to be alone."

France suddenly tensed.

"Well, you don't know that," England said, standing up. "He can be rather shy about what he wants sometimes. It never hurts to ask."

Canada finally looked up at that moment, eyes flitting over to his brother. Then, as if guessing what they were discussing, he hurriedly turned back around.

When America still looked hesitant, England sighed and continued. "I know he doesn't talk much, but you need to give him a chance. Believe me, you two have potential. He's lucky to have a brother like you."

"Oh!" The young Nation beamed. "Alright!"

And without another word, he turned and began skipping down the hill toward the lone tree.

Silence descended upon the two Nations again, each avoiding the other's gaze. As they watched Canada glance up at his brother in surprise, both stayed quiet.

And then finally, France said slowly, "So that's why."

Immediately, England's expression turned defensive. "What?"

"Why you try so hard to make them happy," he continued, his eyes softening. "I should have known."

"And what is that reason?" England scowled.

France hardly hesitated before replying. "Because you want to give them the childhood you never had," he said, his fingers twisting around a strand of his golden locks. "What you said to America reminded me of something—I have heard about your relations with your brothers."

"What the hell do you know about anything?" England demanded, his eyebrows furrowing. His hands were noticeably shaking. " _Nothing._ "

"You did ask me for specifics, did you not?" France pointed out. "I was merely stating what I noticed. You do have quite the temper."

"Me? _I_ wasn't the one who made it my life mission to provoke you."

France sighed. "You know, hard as it is to believe, I thought you had gotten better over the last few years. What happened?"

"What do you mean, what happened?" England laughed spitefully, jabbing a finger at the other Nation. "The last Treaty of Vienna, that's what. It's been one month since it got signed. We don't need your alliance anymore. We were allies against Spain and Russia, and now it's all said and done. It's over."

"So now you can get friendly with Austria, and we go back to being enemies. What wonderful news."

England raised an eyebrow. "Was that sarcasm?"

The other Nation only shrugged, glancing back down to check his nails. "You seem to hold the belief that international relations confine us."

"In case you've been living under a rock—yes, that is indeed the case," England said. "And your point is?"

A soft breeze whipped over their heads as France turned his gaze away, staring listlessly at the scene before them. America was chattering excitedly on and on about something they could not quite hear, while Canada's expression remained skeptical. It appeared that the attempts to engage in conversation had been fruitless.

"I find your way of thinking to be... interesting," he finally said.

 _Liar. You thought the exact same way up until a few years ago. Only now are you starting to question what you thought you'd always known._

England snorted.

"Well, I do need to be going," he said, standing up. "Stay away from me in the future, frog."

"I can try."

And with the light of the setting sun upon them, a conversation was ended.

* * *

 _ **1758**_

France didn't try. Or rather, he couldn't.

Come the Seven Years' War, the two once again found themselves on opposite ends of the battlefield. With every fallen soldier, every ringing shot of a weathered musket, they felt themselves fall back into the same steady rhythm. It felt wrong, but it was familiar. And neither was about to let go of the only type of connection they had.

He remembered the last time he would see Canada in a long while, a dark and windswept midnight that blew the shutters closed. It was about a week after the Siege of Louisbourg ended, but the memories were still fresh in his mind. And as they sat shivering on bare wooden chairs, oil lamps sputtering pitifully on the tables, Canada suddenly turned toward France with a nervous expression.

"U-um, excuse me," he stuttered.

"Mm?"

"Why... why does Mr. England want to keep me from you?"

France sighed, picking at a piece of wood grain on the table. Tentatively, he tried for a smile, just for Canada's sake. There were times when such a smile might dazzle an audience, but not today. "Well, I'm sure Eyebrows has his own reasons."

"But—"

"Just stay close to me, alright?"

"Oh, okay..."

And from that point on, they fell into an uncomfortable silence.

Every so often, France would revert his gaze to the floorboards, occasionally muttering to himself that everything would end up fine. Canada seemed to understand the awkward tension in the room, and wrapped his blanket closer around himself, keeping as quiet as possible.

But France was wrong.

Only a year later, the British managed to gain control of eastern Canada. The Battle of Quebec lasted just an hour, but it was a vital part of what would later become the _annus mirabilis_ of 1759.

He was present when they took Canada away. The boy barely struggled or fought back, only fiddled with his fingers anxiously as he stared at the ground. The battle over, both sides scurried for negotiations, while a musket was held to France's head by a tall British soldier. By the time England finally appeared, two officers flanking him, Canada was already being whisked away out of sight.

"Stay safe!" France yelled after him.

It might have been in vain.

He would never know whether the boy had heard him or not.

* * *

 **0~0~0**

* * *

 _ **October 16, 1781**_

 _ **York River shore, Yorktown**_

 _September 13, 1759 was one of the days that France still remembered clearly._

 _England had gained control over so much of North America in so little time. They had exchanged words, but it was the same ordeal every time—the condescending remarks, the sneers, every bit of it. It never occurred to him until then how casually they made the whole situation out to be, as if war was just another part of their life._

 _In a way, it was._

 _But it still unsettled him, if only for a brief moment._

 _"So, I gained a new colony today," England had stated haughtily, stopping in front of France. "Anything to say about that?"_

 _The other Nation paused for a moment, considering._

 _"Well, I shall be placing bets for when they leave."_

 _England had laughed. A gesture he would regret in years to come. "I wouldn't put too much of my money on that if I were you."_

"And yet, here we are," France muttered to himself, reverting back to the present.

Wind whipped through his hair as he paused, gripping his musket tightly.

Up by the river's shore, a straggly group of British soldiers were attempting to fit into a boat. If they ever made it to Gloucester Point, they would be safe from their pursuing enemies. But the assault was showing no signs of slowing, and unfortunately for those trying to evacuate across the river, the weather did not appear to be on their side.

"Alfred?" France suddenly called, turning around. "Where..."

The young Nation was gone.

Cursing under his breath, he began pushing his way through the wave of soldiers, blue and white uniforms blurring before his eyes. Gunshots fired out into the night around him, yet he couldn't catch a single glimpse of America's blond head.

"Alfred!"

 _Nothing._

Trying to calm down, France kept looking, despite shouted commands for him to get back into position. They could handle without him, he decided. The situation was hopeless for the British now. Their defenses were being broken down left and right, and the siege would soon be over.

"Answer me if you're there, Alfred!" he called again.

Images of the young Nation lying on the ground went flying through his mind, of gunshot wounds festering through torn blue cloth and blood clotting his matted hair. Despite himself, his hands began shaking—surely not?

 _No._

 _He would not. I_ _know him. He would not dare. But another British soldier would, and if so, this could be America's second time being shot by one of England's countrymen. And if it turns out to be anything like last time..._

More determined than ever, France continued searching, eyes pried for any sign of his comrade. He had backed up America up to this point, and he would be the one to see his independence through. A part of him knew that this was, to some extent, just to spite England, but it hardly mattered. Something in America had gotten through to him, whether it was his youthful vigor or his idealistic mindset.

Whatever it was, it had sparked something in the older Nation that he thought he had lost.

 _Please, tell me he's fine._

And then—

 _And then—_

Through a thick veil of mist and smoke, a familiar figure was kneeling in the mud, musket discarded and lying uselessly in front of him. It was not who France was looking for, but his appearance still surprised him. Stopping to gape, he called out hesitantly.

"E...England?"

There was no response.

"England!"

For a moment, the world seemed to still. There was nothing—no dead soldiers or gunshots or fallen bricks. Just one of his oldest rivals, weaponless, trembling, his face in his hands...

 _...sobbing..._

France took a step forward, lowering his musket. "Why are you here?" he said softly.

There was an even longer period of silence.

And then England finally spoke.

"Fuck off."

His voice was shaking. Even with the chaos around him, France could make out the tears smudged on his face. Even through the choking smoke, he could see his visibly distressed expression.

And even through differing alliances, something still tugged at him.

Eyes narrowed, unkempt blonde hair waving in the wind, France asked quietly, "Did America come here?"

"I've already kindly told you to fuck off. So please."

England reached weakly for his musket, but the wind blew it even further out of his reach.

Deftly, France used his boot to stop it from rolling away. For a split second, their eyes met.

And then cautiously, he picked the musket up and held it out to England.

Before the other could speak, France stated with a pained smile, "Here. Take it."

"What?"

"I thought you would want it."

"But—"

"It is almost dawn."

"The hell does that have to do with anything?"

All around them, the last remaining British soldiers were being backed up into the corner. In the corner of his eye, France thought he caught a glimpse of America's blue uniform—but it was gone as soon as it appeared.

It was over.

"There is nothing left to defend now," France replied. "Nor anything else you can do."

He tossed the musket to an unresponsive England. It clacked against the frozen ground.

"But—I—" the other Nation struggled for words.

France's voice softened.

"The war is over, mon ami."

Through lens bordered by a fevered haze, England watched his rival turn his back on him—shoulders slumped, empty-handed, canyons of creases in the worn cloth of his uniform. A sudden desperate emotion tore through him, raw and foreign and unidentifiable and _dangerous_ , and then his hands were no longer on the ground, he was trying to stand—

Before he could react, England was in front of him. His eyes were feral, dancing with a mad glint that made France take an involuntary step back.

And then the world pirouetted on its end.

Incongruous images spun before his eyes, heartache and rage writhing together in one miserable via dolorosa to the forefront of his mind.

 _Flames dart through the waves, an amalgamation of what-can't-be and what-shouldn't-be. Hate and the suspended carcass of a butchered hope._

Somewhere in the distance, he thought he could hear the faint stirrings of a panicked voice.

And then England collapsed.

* * *

 **0~0~0**

* * *

When France asked America later on what happened with England, the young Nation abruptly stopped, eyes wide.

"How did you know about that?" he accused in an uncharacteristically high-pitched voice.

"Just tell me."

"I told Arthur to leave me alone. Okay? That was it."

And in that moment, France was glad he could sense lies when he heard them.

* * *

.

.

.

* * *

 **\- A/N -**

 **From this point on, we're going to start seeing more from England's perspective. This is partly because of the shifting power balance in Europe—it'll be easier to write the story that way.**

 **Can anyone guess what the next chapter will be about?**

 **Also, come to think of it, "everyone was happy except they weren't" is a decent representation of history (and life) in general.**

 _ **Reference(s):**_

 **[1] March 5, 1770 was the day on which the Boston Massacre occurred. A group of British soldiers shot several civilians in a mob after being harassed and assaulted with snowballs and rocks.**

 **[2] The Siege of Louisbourg was one of the major contributing factors that led to the eventual loss of most French colonial land in North America.**

 **[3] _Annus mirabilis_ means "miraculous year" in Latin.**

 _ **Note(s):**_

 **[1] I know the Siege of Yorktown technically ended on October 19, but that was when negotiations were signed, not when the fighting stopped. Cornwallis had already surrendered by morning of the 17th. (At least, I think so.)**

 **~ Reviews are appreciated ~**

 **(i wonder how many chapters i can go without anyone reviewing haha)**


	7. six

**\- A/N -**

 **After France interfered in the American Revolutionary War, the government went heavily into debt. Along with a surge in taxes, the general population was also envious of the privileges of the aristocracy, especially after years of inadequate harvests.**

 **As all of you know, the monarchy was abolished, and aft** **er several long years of political conflict, King Louis XVI was executed. This had followed the beginning of the French Revolutionary Wars in 1792, and would later lead to the infamous Reign of Terror.**

 **(by the way, i know that most of you know your history, probably more than i do** **—these 'explanations' only serve as a just-in-case thing, and for me to pretend i'm being productive when i get writer's block. sorry if they got annoying.)**

* * *

 _7\. French Revolution_

* * *

 **Chapter Six**

 _ **July 24, 1789**_

 _ **Paris, France**_

There was a figure in the fog.

As hard as England tried, he still couldn't figure out exactly who it was. Part of him was prickling with annoyance—something that made him feel as if he'd been in this situation before.

 _Have I?_

Taking a deep breath, he cleared his throat and called out hesitantly, "A-America?"

The figure didn't seem to hear him. Instead, gathering its cloak around itself, it began walking even further away.

Panic began rising inside him, a suffocating, vise-like grip on his rationality. Faintly, England could hear the desperate patter of his own pounding heart. _Oh, hell no. Please don't leave. Please don't..._ "America?" he tried again. "Britannica? S-Scotland?"

Nothing. It was useless. The figure was disappearing into the distance, and there was nothing England could do to stop it. Vainly, he attempted to move forward, but it was like trying to walk while being encased in glue. Before he knew it, he was out of breath without having made a single step.

 _No!_

 _Please, it wasn't my fault. Give me another chance. At least let me apologize. The things I did, the things I didn't. I promise I'll—_

" _Alfred!_ "

The next thing England knew, he was sitting bolt upright in his bed, hair slick with sweat and eyes open wide. Cold, silent darkness surrounded him, and yet his head was still spinning. Breathing heavily, he shoved his blankets off to the side and slowly hung his legs over the edge of the bed.

There was nothing. Not a single trace of the figure in the mist that had haunted him for _two goddamn months_. Just the lonely sight of his inn room and the faint moonlight filtering in through the windows. Placing a hand to his chest, England felt for the staccato beat of a thousand-year-old heart.

 _Still too fast. Still startled._

 _Still... scared..._

Apparently, the figure had followed him to Paris.

Taking deep, calming breaths, England stood up and began fumbling on the nearby nightstand for candles. He wasn't exactly sure what compelled him to visit in the first place, but the recent uprisings across the Channel had made him curious... and admittedly worried. Not for France, of course, but for himself. With such occurrences in order, things were bound to get out of hand.

The truth was, he hadn't talked with France in a while. Surprisingly, the other Nation had actually been reasonably tactful after the American Revolutionary War—no rubbing salt in his wounds as he usually did. England suspected this was mostly due to pity, but accepted it anyway. After all, he wasn't weak. He could easily live through this. Alfred might be gone, but it hardly mattered in the grand scheme of things. There were other places he could colonize in the future, perhaps further away...

Right at that moment, his shaking finger slipped on the candlestick and it fell to the floorboards with a _clack_. "Dammit," England muttered crossly, bending over to pick it up.

And then the window suddenly shattered behind him.

* * *

"What the hell is going on?" England yelled as he stormed out of the inn, completely forgetting to switch languages.

After peering out of the fractured window, he'd quickly discovered a small mob gathered right below the chipped sill. Kicking aside the offending object, a large metal bucket, he'd quickly gathered his cloak around him and headed out.

A few heads turned to stare, but most of the crowd's attention remained on the original point of interest. Two seemingly aristocratic men were currently being backed into a corner, trying to defend themselves with a nearby broomstick. Whatever they were shouting to the angry crowd around them only seemed to add insult to injury.

And then—

"Arrêtez!"

Just as someone was about to throw a punch, another figure stepped up from behind and abruptly placed a hand on their shoulder. A woman next to England gasped, and the crowd suddenly quietened.

Francis Bonnefoy looked extremely irritated. For once, his hair appeared faintly disheveled, and to England's alarm, he was wearing nothing more than a plain cotton shirt and baggy trousers. Crossing his arms, he began saying something in rapid-fire French.

All England could catch were a few scattered words, but it seemed to be working. A few people stayed behind to argue, but most of the crowd soon dissipated. To his surprise, the two aristocrats from before had disappeared as well. Apparently, any opening was good enough for them.

By the time the commotion finally died out, only the two Nations were left standing by the road. Some curious passersby gave them strange looks, but then turned back around and moved on. Realizing the awkward tension between them, England buried his hands into his pockets defensively.

"I... just wanted to visit you, if that's what you're wondering."

"I can tell," France replied dryly. "Well?"

Something wasn't right, England decided. His words still held the same suave confidence, and yet his tone betrayed him. Maybe he was just seeing France's facade crumble for the first time. "I wanted to talk."

"On what?"

"You know what I mean," England snapped, gesturing to the space around them. "I thought you were on the side of your rebellious citizens? Enlightenment values and revoking royal privilege and all that?"

France shrugged inconclusively. "Ah, you could definitely see it that way. But who would I be to stand by and let them do whatever they want?"

"So, no violence?" he scoffed. "Even after the storming of your Bastille? Even after all those lynchings? You _have_ heard about that Foulen de Doué, haven't you?"

"How could I not?"

"So what are you going to do about it?"

"Me?" France laughed. A hollow laugh. It sounded slightly desperate to England's ears. "I can't do anything. My only role is to serve the monarchy, something that might not even exist in the future."

For a moment, he paused. Fiddling with his blond locks, he slowly turned away, head slightly tilted as if listening for something. "And, you know," he added softly, "I have even heard about plans for a new flag. A tricolor flag. Red and blue, the colors of Paris, surrounding a traditional band of white."

"Well, here's to hoping I won't only see red when I come back in the future," England called after him, crossing his arms.

"Ne t'en fais pas," France replied, turning to give a faint smile. "You won't."

* * *

 **0~0~0**

* * *

And yet five years later, by the end of the Reign of Terror, over forty thousand had been sent to their deaths by the ever-dutiful guillotine.

* * *

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

* * *

 **\- A/N -**

 **Sorry for giving you guys such a short chapter.**

 _ **Reference(s):**_

 **[1] Joseph Foullon de Doué was a particularly unpopular politician who was lynched with his son. Although the crowd had originally decided to hang him, the rope ended up breaking three times in a row. He wasn't off the hook, though, and got to be beheaded instead. Lucky dude, huh?**

 _ **Translation(s):**_

 **[1] Arrêtez - Stop**

 **[2] Ne t'en fais pas - Don't worry**

 **~ Reviews are appreciated ~**


	8. seven

**\- A/N -**

 **The ensuing conflicts after the Revolution** **are typically separated into seven parts, the latter five being part of the Napoleonic Wars.** **Initially, the newly-formed French Republic was doing pretty well against a bunch of other countries, most notably Britain and Austria. After France defeated the opposing coalitions and gained some new territory, Napoleon took over.**

 **Over the next few years, after the uneasy peace broke, Napoleon won multiple times in battle against the Prussians and Austrians. But then he tried to invade Russia... and, well, you know what happens next. H** **e got exiled to an island called Elba for a while before managing to escape back to France** — **but in the end, he was still defeated at Waterloo by the Seventh Coalition.**

 **Britain never went to war with France again after that, although relations were noticeably strained at times.**

* * *

 _8\. Napoleonic Wars_

* * *

 **Chapter Seven**

To some Russians, Waterloo was hardly a victory to be flaunted over. After all, it was them who had dealt the crippling blow to the Grande Armée—one of the first nails in Napoleon's coffin. Without their so-called Patriotic War of 1812, who knows how long the conflict could have dragged on for?

One might have expected England to voice his disagreement. On those days where the Nations started reminiscing about their past glory, a drunken Prussia would occasionally ask him how it felt to "kick France's arse". And England knew what he was supposed to say ("Hah, you should have seen the look on that wanker's face..."), except he could never bring himself to mean it.

He didn't mention the fact that their face-off hadn't occurred in the midst of the fighting itself, but by the side of a dilapidated farmhouse near Waterloo. And England never intended on discussing what had transpired there.

* * *

There were nights when he sat before the fireplace, awash in the silvery glow of moonlight and listening to the city bustle from beside the window. The curtains would be wide open, the seat cushions soft against his back, a rug spread out below his slippers. And for a few moments, England could just be Arthur Kirkland.

For once, his thoughts weren't constantly on the subject of international affairs. There was just he, himself, and his cup of tea. Of course, there was always the risk of his mind reverting back to the past, but he, as a Nation, had long since found ways to cope.

In his earliest days, he had been much less experienced. England used to think that the flashing images of blood and war in his mind would disappear if only he went to sleep.

They didn't.

Instead, they became much worse. Closing his eyes was an invitation for his imagination to work horrors—atrocities that didn't seem to be a product of his own experience, but a reflection of the pain of others. And in the darkest of days, he could hardly separate fantasy from reality. A real, tangible memory or the mere phantom of one?

The consequences of sleep deprivation were many, and England knew them far too well.

Still, he never broke. He simply refused to. As long as the sun never set on the British Empire, his spirit would not break. After all, he wouldn't be the world's foremost economical, political, and military power if he didn't get back up from the dust.

And so came the barrage of biting sarcasm, snide quips, and quiet self-deprecating remarks that no one ever seemed to notice.

What sort of joke was England's life, where his own brother preferred his rival over himself? What world was he living in, where the one Nation he cared about wanted 'independence' from him?

 _A bit ironic that I can defend my land from invasions, but can't defend my heart from sentimental shit like this, huh?_

The mug suddenly fell from his loosening grasp, clattering to the cold floorboards below. As the spilled tea slowly pooled around his feet, England closed his eyes to the sound of the softly crackling fireplace and fell asleep.

* * *

 **0~0~0**

* * *

 _ **June 18, 1815**_

 ** _La Haye Sainte, Belgium_**

Some days seemed surreal.

Despite the assault having begun in the early afternoon, the French were still showing no signs of relenting. As England watched the gunsmoke spiral away into the air, complementing a backdrop of bleak evening, he carefully raised his rifle.

 _Come on... where the hell are those Prussians at?_

They had to recapture La Haye Sainte—it was one of the most critical points of the battle, as insignificant as the farm seemed at first glance. The Rifle Brigade were doing what they could, but it wasn't enough. If Napoleon were allowed to succeed, then, well...

And then someone suddenly called out to him.

"Angleterre?"

It sounded hesitant, but more than that, it was faint, as if the speaker were standing somewhere far away. England didn't respond—in fact, he'd hardly heard, and instead tried to focus on where he was aiming his rifle. The nervous-looking soldier to the right seemed like easy picking, but then again, there were more important places he could be paying attention to...

 _Boom._

A fray of wood chips suddenly went flying beside him, a wasted bullet within the scattered dust.

England spun around faster than the other Nation could register. "It's you!" he snarled, shoving his rifle in France's face. "I should have known you were going to be here!"

"Well?" France replied contemptuously. "Are you not going to shoot?"

His eyes were glinting. Once a light ocean-blue, now they were filled to the brim with disdain, indecision... and a slight touch of madness. It was still jarring to see him like this, but England kept his rifle trained on the other's neck.

"You don't care anymore, do you?" he accused, backing France into a corner.

He was breathing much too heavily, his grip slick from sweat, but he didn't care. "It's all about your glorious emperor now. You'd go fucking drown yourself if he told you to. What happened to those 'revolutionary ideals'? What happened to _l_ _iberté, égalité, fraternité_? What happened to—"

"Nothing," France scowled, his musket now raised as well. "Nothing happened. What exactly is so wrong about me becoming an empire?"

"That's not how it works and you know it."

"You cannot—"

"Look, Francis," England interrupted quietly. "I'm sick of saying the same things over and over to you."

France raised an eyebrow.

"Just admit it," he hissed. "You want power at the expense of your neighbors. That's not anything new." Pushing the rifle to within a foot of his rival's neck, he continued, "What I'm tired of, is you putting up an act like you're so special."

The other Nation merely brushed a strand of hair out of his face, but his eyes suddenly seemed wary.

"The fact that I could lodge a bullet in your pretty little face right now doesn't seem to concern you. And we both know why."

"Oh? We do?"

They were being backed further and further away from the main battleground. Everything was fading behind them—the cry of a soldier on his knees, the erratic stream of gunfire—a spinning wheel of death and hatred. The cycle that would never end for as long as humanity existed.

"Yes, we do," England growled, his voice ragged. "This is exactly what I'm bloody talking about. We've been at each other's throats for centuries, so much that we don't even think about it anymore."

He stopped, then forged on.

"In the beginning, I hated you because I didn't know who you were. You were just a name and a title who'd taken over my land by force. But then I got to know you. And, by the fucking heavens, you were just as infuriating as I thought you would be."

"When did you start swearing so much?"

England ignored this. "I thought that was all you were. A playboy arsehole who hated me just as much as the rest of them."

"Well, I am flattered."

"Could you shut up for one sodding second?" England snapped. "As I was _saying_ , I didn't realize back then that our rivalry would end up running so deep. Or that my view of you would ever change."

France paused, his scornful smile fading.

"But that was before Joan of Arc came along. Before... America and Canada."

Here, the island Nation took a deep breath. "And I realized that we both had sides that neither of us had seen before. Which was why, as much as I hate to admit it, I was initially worried for you at the start of the Revolution."

"Initially?" Francis asked quietly.

England studied his expression carefully. He didn't seem to be mocking him anymore. The longer he watched, the more the previous fervor in France's eyes seemed to disappear... replaced by growing exhaustion and confusion.

A sharp pang went through his heart.

"I didn't understand anything back then," England growled, gritting his teeth. "I changed my mind once you started threatening the rest of us. You're out of your bloody mind if you think you can get away with any of this, Francis. And yet you're not worried about me pointing a rifle at you. Why?"

"I..." France began, leaning against the wall.

He was trying. Trying to regain the facade that had already been shredded into confetti around his feet. Trying and failing.

"I'll tell you why," England continued, his eyes narrowing. "What was the last time we've been in a situation like this?"

Francis didn't even need to think about it. "T... two days ago," he managed.

"Exactly," England said. His voice was rising, both in intonation and volume. "And it's like this with us. _All_ the damn time. It's a cycle that we're stuck in for all eternity. Yet, when was the last time that either of us actually killed each other?"

For a moment, France considered the rifle that was still trained on his neck, as if it would provide the answer.

And then he realized.

"You cannot be _serious_ ," he said with indignation, all traces of vulnerability gone in an instant. The moment he tried to raise his musket, though, the other Nation quickly smacked it out of reach.

It disappeared into the bushes.

"Why would I not be?" England challenged, moving a finger to the trigger. Even so, his hand was shaking so much he could barely focus. "This is war, in case you've forgotten. I should have shot you from the beginning, instead of rambling on about who-knows-what."

He saw France's eyes widen uselessly, as if part of him were still in denial. England felt faintly sick just by thinking about it, and even he couldn't quite understand his own motives.

All he knew was that the last twenty-six years of war had been what led up to this single moment.

 _Quick, before you doubt yourself—_

And he pulled the trigger.

* * *

Thinking back, England was sure he'd gone briefly into shock.

 _What did I_ —

 _I—_

And yet, he knew that this was nothing compared to the hell the other Nation must have gone through.

A Pattern 1800 Infantry Rifle against soft skin and a mass of arteries and veins?

 _What did I just..._

The blood didn't register in his mind, even when his uniform became soaked in scarlet. Neither did anything else. Someone had cried out, and it could have either or both of them, or was it just in Arthur's mind?

All he knew was that when he finally snapped back to the present, Francis was kneeling in a gathering puddle of his own blood.

Unintelligible words were being pulled out of his strangled throat, yet they sounded as if they were coming from underwater. It might have been English, it might have been French, or perhaps it was neither.

Either way, there was only one thought England could register in his numbed state.

 _Why do I feel as if..._

He watched as the other Nation slumped over, eyes still wide. England suddenly couldn't remember if he'd gained any injuries in the battle prior to this, perhaps a blow to the head or a knife to his rib cage, because the pain was overwhelming and yet he didn't understand where it was coming from.

And then he went still.

* * *

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

* * *

 **\- A/N -**

 ***throws hands up in surrender***

 **I swear this chapter was not originally planned to go down this path.** **Please don't kill me—I have relatives in (insert whichever country you might be reading this story in).**

 **Except I don't, but whatever.**

 **...also** **i'msorryforpossiblehistoricalinaccuracieseventhoughi'vesaidthatseveraltimesalready, andalsosorryforexposingmyinnocentreaderstosuchatrociousdrivel,** **likeeverythingwasjustreallymelodramaticandannoying** **becausethenationshavealreadylivedthroughthistypeofstuffsowhywouldtheystillbeaffectedbyit,** **butontheotherhandtheymightseemheartless,** **sobasicallyihavenoideaaboutanything,** **andifiaccidentallyoffendedanyonewithanythingtheni'msorrytoo,** **thisstorywasjustabunchofshittyhistoricalheadcanonsthatiwantedtoputonpaper, sorryi'moveranxiousaboutlotsofthingsACKokaybye**

 **~ Reviews are appreciated ~**


	9. eight

**\- A/N -**

 **Instead of covering only a single event this time, we'll go skipping through the timeline in a hopefully non-confusing fashion. Ideally** **, I'll have enough summarizing skills to give you sufficient historical context within the story, instead of rambling on and on in an author's note.**

* * *

 _9\. 1815 to 1904_

* * *

 **Chapter Eight**

 ** _November 20, 1815_**

 ** _Paris, France_**

"Shake hands, gentlemen," someone suggested.

A collection of documents were spread on the table behind them, the writing crowded against the page. Words that would determine the future, but towards which he could only feel apathy.

 _ART. I. The Frontiers of France shall be the same as they were in the year 1790, save and except the modifications on one side and on the other, which are detailed in the present Article._

 _ART. IV. The pecuniary part of the Indemnity to be furnished by France to the Allied Powers, is fixed at the sum of 700 millions of Francs._

 _ART. V. The state of uneasiness and of fermentation [...] requiring, for the security of the neighbouring States, certain measures of precaution, and of temporary guarantee, it has been judged indispensable to occupy, during a fixed time, by a Corps of Allied Troops, certain military positions along the frontiers of France..._

England stepped forward in compliance, but kept his gaze on the floor. He could practically feel the other Nation's eyes on him, fingers clenched, his posture stiff, an unspoken tension between two rivals.

 _And yet..._

Without a word, France reached out and gripped England's hand. It felt colder than usual, or was that just from the atmosphere in the room? Briefly, he shook it with his fingernails digging in harshly before shoving Arthur away.

Such a simple gesture, and yet England could sense the message clear as day.

As the Treaty of Paris was signed behind them, he dug his hand into his pocket and winced. Those crescent moon marks on his skin hurt, but he was still tempted to think that he'd deserved them.

* * *

 **0~0~0**

* * *

 _ **June 26, 1848**_

On the last day of the uprising, he thought his anxiety would lift.

England wasn't anywhere in France when the June Days uprising ended. Nor was he there to witness the carnage firsthand. The news came as a catalog of names and statistics, numbers that went into the thousands and digits that meant nothing. He wasn't there for the door-to-door death threats or the mass deportations to Algeria that occurred after the fact... and yet he could still see France's clouded eyes, clear in his mind.

 _Unemployment._

 _Closure of the National Workshops._

 _Protests and riots._

 _Ten thousand killed, four thousand deported. It's never going to end, is it?_

Nights like these, he knew, were the worst. Nations were prone to worrying, even if they hid it behind a mask and false bravado—yet it seemed to affect him especially. When the lights dimmed and the earth was but a shadow on the moon, England closed his eyes and pondered. Wondered what he'd done to deserve this life, wondered what they'd _all_ done to deserve their perpetual loneliness.

Sometimes, he'd spot shooting stars. And he'd wonder who in the city below was making their wish.

 _Do you forgive me?_

* * *

 **0~0~0**

* * *

 _ **January 21, 1855**_

 ** _Westminster, London_**

When the first snowball was thrown, he could only shake his head.

Outside, in Trafalgar Square, the crowds were gathering. Clumps of snow pelted the passing vehicles, sliding down fogged windows and being crushed into the ground by rickety wheels.

"Can't exactly blame them, can I?" England muttered under his breath.

Before him, the mob was growing rapidly in number. It appeared that police efforts to curb the protest were being drowned out—far to his left, an officer went down with a yelp under an assail of snowballs. Digging his hands into his coat pockets, England sighed and turned away.

The scene looked faintly absurd, but the reason for the commotion was not. After the disastrous Charge of the Light Brigade, opposition to the ongoing Crimean War had been raised to an all-time high. Helping the Ottoman Empire fight Russia just didn't seem worth it anymore. And the thousand or so people gathered in the square were out to prove that.

 _It's been half a century since Waterloo, and half a century since we've fought,_ England mused. _This war isn't the first we've been allied under. And yet... it feels so strange to not be enemies anymore._

Another round of snowballs assaulted the police force, but some of the agitated officers were starting to reach for their truncheons.

 _No. I'm wrong._

 _This is just temporary._

 _This cycle—this rhythm—it'll eventually go back to the way it was. I can't h... I can't let my guard down about him._

Someone screamed behind him.

 _And he's becoming so unpredictable these days. Not as bad as when the Revolution was going around, at least, but I still need to be wary. One moment he's laughing and flirting with a bunch of ladies, the next he's going off into a reverie or telling me to go away._

 _I just..._

A snowball suddenly smacked him full-on in the face, startling him out of his thoughts. Freezing melted crystals began trickling down the length of his neck, soaking the front of his coat with muddy water.

 _I just don't know anymore._

* * *

 **0~0~0**

* * *

 _ **October 18, 1860**_

 _ **Beijing, China**_

As the smoke swirled into the midnight air, he could see his empty eyes reflected in the fire.

The Old Summer Palace, what used to be a majestic source of pride for dynasties past, was in flames. Listening to the scorched roof slowly cave in was painful _—_ but necessary, he reminded himself. The once-colorful tiles, charred and broken, crumbled further into the midst of a ravenous blaze.

France stood beside him, visibly tense. England's eyes began flicking back and forth through the destruction, to the snapping flames and the collapsed entryway. The devastated relics of what once was.

It was... unnerving.

"They were tortured," the island Nation said quietly.

Raising an eyebrow, France turned.

"The envoys. All twenty of them. They died brutally in the hands of the Qing—and while under a flag of truce, no less. Elgin is merely exacting revenge."

"You sound as if you are trying to convince yourself," France noted.

England shrugged, but didn't attempt to deny it. "I never said anything to the contrary. I simply stated Elgin's reasons for burning down the palace. I may agree with him or I may not. And you?"

"Well, it is certainly a shame," France replied, pursing his lips, reverting his gaze. "Hundreds of acres of architectural wonders and cultural valuables, burned."

"So what are you arguing for?"

France sighed, running his fingers through his long blonde locks. "Nothing. Just trying to come to a conclusion."

Soldiers continued to rush past, a blur of uniforms and weapons and equipment slung over shoulders. Despite the inferno climbing higher and higher into the sky, much of the palace was still left untouched and intact. Yet it was no match against the hungry flames.

What had once lasted for centuries would soon be reduced to broken archways and a few decrepit stone bridges.

"You know," England suddenly growled, breaking into the other Nation's thoughts. "We've always been involved in an awful lot of wars."

It was an obvious statement. An unnecessary assertion. France's expression shifted to one of curiosity, but still turned a wary gaze on him.

"Fucking wars and their devil spawn," he continued, breaking out into a harsh laugh. "What I wouldn't give to be at home, sipping a cup of good old British tea. Do I really look like I care about bloody trade imbalances and foreign imports? Hah, they wish..."

France was about to open his mouth to interrupt, then appeared to reconsider.

Instead, he nodded for England to go on.

"So in we went, swaggering over to the East with all our beloved gunboats. Started one Opium War back in '39 but that wasn't good enough. Hell, the treaty was a complete failure and what a surprise _that_ was. So how about another war to solve the problem, they said?"

Here, England drew in a deep, shuddering breath. "If only a few more countries had decided to join in. Then—"

"Arthur..."

"Then we'd finally have that nice big reunion we've always wanted, complete with all our least favorite Nations. It'd be something to look forward to. Just plain wonderful, don't you think? And—"

"Arthur, wait."

His eyes tilted upward, catching France's gaze for just a split second. Shadowed eyes stared back at him, a frown traced across his lips. Concern framed his expression, speaking volumes into his inner world—and then it was gone.

Without warning, England suddenly slumped over.

Messy hair flopping over the side of his head, bent over with hands on his knees, the British Empire looked... exhausted.

"Oh God," he muttered, head spinning. "What was I..."

He didn't get a chance to finish his sentence.

The next thing he knew, he staggered forward. And then he abruptly collapsed against the other Nation's shoulder. The rough uniform poked uncomfortably at England's neck, and France shifted in surprise, but he hardly cared.

 _Just..._

As the world around them was set on flame, England buried his face into the stiff material, closed his eyes, and stayed there. A temporary refuge against the sudden spell of lightheadedness.

 _Just for one moment..._

* * *

 **0~0~0**

* * *

 _ **1873**_

 ** _London, England_**

And when the day came for bank reserves to take a plunge, he couldn't even get out of bed.

America took a hit, especially after the events of his civil war. England did as well, just like almost every other European country. Unemployment soared and inflation ran rampant—and no one was immune from the aftershocks.

 _At least I'm not out on the battlefield right now,_ England reasoned, squinting at the thermometer. _Unlike_ _Francis, who lost that war he started with Gilbert two years ago. Really, what the hell did that idiot think was going to happen?_

Some part of him was startled at his own thoughts. Not at their biting nature, but at the unexpected underlying intention—somewhere along the way, he'd began worrying about his neighbor's well-being.

 _Is it just the fact that our countries aren't at war anymore?_

No.

That wasn't it. That couldn't just be it. It was a large deciding factor, yes, but not the whole picture.

England leaned back into his pillow and pulled the covers around himself.

 _Well, let's see. I've already gotten several opportunities to start a discussion with him about what happened at Waterloo, but he mostly just frowns and looks away. His death count's probably in the thirties somewhere—after all, he's been here a while, which means..._

He closed his eyes, fingers unconsciously curling into a fist.

 _He cared._

 _He cared about that one lone incident out of thirty, forty, maybe more. Why?_

 _Because you've known him the longest?_

 _Because it came out of nowhere?_

A part of his mind knew the answer, but England quickly ground it into dust.

* * *

 **0~0~0**

* * *

 _ **April 8, 1904**_

A century turned.

Eighty-eight years after the signing of the 1815 Treaty of Paris, they'd finally shaken hands again.

With no one else to rely on, the two countries finally turned to each other. These series of pacts would encompass territorial agreements from Egypt to Newfoundland to Burmese Tenasserim, and notably strengthen Anglo-French relations for years to come.

It was called the Entente Cordiale.

As they gripped each other's hand, France gave a nervous smile. And when they stepped back, no one's fingers were broken and no one's hand was marked with nail indents.

* * *

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

* * *

 **\- A/N -**

 **As I've mentioned before, I felt really conflicted over how much angst I wanted to add on England's part.**

 **This chapter was significantly less edited in comparison to previous ones... probably because every time I read through it, I kept cringing for a variety of reasons. For one, I attempted to find a balance between "textbook" and "soap opera" and I failed.**

 ***internally bangs head against wall***

 **~ Reviews are appreciated ~**


	10. nine

**\- A/N -**

 **i have a legit love-hate relationship with this story now lol. starting to lean more toward 'hate' with every passing chapter, though.**

 **Anyway, here we are finally at the War to End All Wars. It took a while, but now there's only two more chapters left to do. And speaking of that** — **it's completely-unnecessary** **-and-snobbish-historical-exposition** **o'clock!**

 ***clears throat importantly***

 **When Yugoslav nationalist Gavrilo Princip assassinated Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria, it prompted the escalation of a series of complicated international tensions. He had been commanded by a member of the Black Hand, a secret society intent on the unification of all Southern Slavic regions. Soon after, most of the major powers became involved in the conflict, forming the Allied Powers and the Central Powers.**

 **Also, part of the chapter is just about the** **Zimmermann Telegram** **. If you don't know what that is, it'll be explained (poorly) very shortly.**

* * *

 _10\. World War I_

* * *

 _We shall endeavor in spite of this to keep the United States of America neutral. In the event of this not succeeding, we make Mexico a proposal of alliance on the following basis: make war together, make peace together, generous_ _financial_ _support and an understanding on our part that Mexico is to reconquer the lost territory in Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona._

 _\- Arthur Zimmermann to Heinrich von Eckardt, German ambassador of Mexico_

* * *

 **Chapter Nine**

 _ **February 6, 1917**_

"You need to do what?"

Interjections of a similar sentiment had been expressed not one, not two, but three times over the last several minutes. England sighed in exasperation, then tried again. "We can't let the Americans know how we found the message," he explained. "It might be... impractical."

"Because you won't be able to spy on their diplomatic communication anymore?"

"It's nothing like that. I just don't want this to harm our relationship with the United States."

France laughed bitterly, leaning back in his chair. The unfurnished office room was tiny, and yet it still felt empty with the two Nations inside. "When have you cared about maintaining a good relationship with Alfred? You've been avoiding him ever since the Revolutionary Wars."

"We're not talking about him, you fool, and you know it," the other Nation scowled. "This is about a possible military alliance with a growing international power."

France pursed his lips. "Ah, so you give him the cold shoulder and then ask him for help when it suits you."

"This issue hasn't ever been about me. It's about all of us Allied Powers."

"You are avoiding the subject."

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" England shouted, standing up from his chair and slamming his hands on the desk. The sole hanging lightbulb above him flickered weakly, and he winced. " _We_ obtained the Zimmermann note, _we_ encoded it, and _we'll_ have the final say in what happens, not you."

"You were the one asking me for advice," France pointed out. "You need a cover story to tell the Americans, yes?"

Arthur opened his mouth, then paused. His eyes were still narrowed, suspicion alight in their shadowed depths. And yet, in the hollow glare of the lightbulb, a solitary guardian against the encroaching darkness, his expression suddenly seemed vulnerable.

Tentatively, he nodded.

"Then I will help if you insist. After all, we are allies in this war, and I would do anything for my old friend. Isn't that right?"

England snorted, but didn't respond.

As the island Nation hesitantly settled back in his seat, France pushed a cup of tea over to the other side of the table. Behind them, the raw wind battered at the hastily-closed shutters, slamming the rickety frame against the bare walls as the night wore on. After three years into the war, this was hardly an uncommon scene. Nor a particularly memorable one.

Yet England would remember it. He would remember every last moment of silent desperation they shared in the cell-like room, right before the lightbulb spark finally lost its battle against the darkness and sputtered out of existence.

* * *

The Great War had been hell, in every sense of the word. There was no other possible way to describe what England had seen and experienced, either in a trench several feet under or somewhere out on the churning seas. When the conflict finally ended and the sound of rapid gunfire stopped haunting his dreams, he could no longer count the casualties by millions—even on both hands.

Of course, England couldn't keep track of every detail. Memory was fallible, and a double-edged sword. Especially as there were things he wouldn't mind forgetting. But as he knew, a thousand years' worth of internal recordkeeping was bound for failure somewhere along the line. And so, hidden away from the judgmental gaze of his fellow comrades, he'd opened up his leather-bound journal to the first blank page.

 _1 July 1916_

He scratched his head.

 _First day on the Somme. From Maricourt, we mostly managed to defeat the German army. But then things began to go downhill. I blame all those reckless attacks we made on the Thiepval—that's another several thousand lives that shouldn't have been taken._

England grimaced.

 _The Sixth Army, on the other hand, actually did considerably better than us. Bloody French. Much fewer casualties for them—I suppose all that heavy artillery came in handy._

 _Well, that's all for today. I'll try to write in this whenever I have time. I need to go get some sleep now._

And then he'd slammed the journal shut, placing it back in the dark crevice where it belonged.

Yet the next time England came back to the journal was a month later.

He'd picked up his pen wearily, unsure where to begin. The day's events flooded through his mind like a tidal wave, even as he struggled to find the right words. How was he supposed to describe the war at all, let alone fit it into a few unsuspecting paragraphs?

England pondered for a moment over all the things he'd seen and heard, the growling tanks and the ricocheting bullets and the muttered last-minute prayers. And somehow, he knew that he wouldn't be able to do any of it justice.

Instead, he'd quickly scribbled down two simple words.

 _I'm tired._

* * *

 _ **August 12, 1917**_

They'd been promised an end to the war many times over. A way out of the fighting, once and for all. But like most assurances, it was empty.

England, veteran of centuries of battle, saw it for what it was—a promise devoid of any sincerity. Even if the Allied Hundred Days Offensive went exactly according to plan, which was doubtful at this point.

 _What a naive idea. I can't believe anyone genuinely believes that militarism will be eradicated anytime soon._

 _Well... they are mortals, after all._

In front of him, France was sitting at the folding steel table, pencil in hand and hair tied back in a messy ponytail. From his vantage point, England couldn't tell what he was scribbling on the tiny piece of paper, but assumed it was some sort of sketch.

"War is one of humanity's only constants after all," the island Nation muttered, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall.

France hardly even paused before answering. "So is kindness," he responded, tilting his head as he began pressing the pencil down harder. "However small the form it comes in."

"That's interesting," England said, raising an eyebrow. "You're bloody older than me. I would have thought you to be the cynical type."

"Then you thought wrong."

Before he could respond, the door suddenly slammed open behind them. Quickly stepping away, England winced as a jovial American burst through the entryway, arms waving in the air.

"Hey!"

"Oh, there you are, America," he sighed. "I was wondering where you went."

Curiously, France looked up from his paper and glanced between the two Nations. Arthur ignored him—no doubt trying to gauge his relationship with the boy instead. Instead, he furrowed his brows and continued, "What do you need, anyway?"

"Nothing!" America said cheerfully. Despite his lighthearted demeanor, however, England noted that he still shied away from making eye contact from him. At this, he gritted his teeth. "The hero just wanted to check in!"

England stifled a laugh just in time. "Ah, I see."

"Yeah." He peered further into the room, seemingly curious. "So what are you two doing?"

"Nothing much," England responded, crossing his arms. "So... what heroic feats has the Associated Power undertaken, if I may ask?"

"Well, I mean, there was Cantigny, Château-Thierry, and Belleau Wood," America began. Somewhere behind him, France was visibly cringing at the butchered pronunciations. "Plus I totally rocked the Spring Offensive and made those Germans—"

"You were not the only—"

"And—"

From outside, a shout calling for the attention of 'Mr. Jones' echoed down the hallway. America abruptly stopped his sentence midway, then awkwardly stepped back out through the doorway.

"Sorry, gotta go," he said, giving a brief wave.

The sound of the door as it slammed behind him still rung in England's ear for several minutes after Alfred left.

As the American's loud voice continued to reach them through the paper-thin walls, France finally turned around in his chair. He gave England an amused glance, then shrugged. "You ever thought he'd turn out like this?"

"Dear lord, no," Arthur shuddered, stepping forward and peering over France's shoulder. "I don't understand where I went wrong with him. Anyway, what are you drawing?"

It didn't look like much. Francis had simply been doodling on a children's coloring worksheet with a stubby pencil. England didn't know where he'd gotten it, but it didn't matter.

 _Outline each continent on the map clearly with a different color,_ the print on the top stated cheerfully. _Remember to label each one._

France had completely ignored the instructions. Instead, he'd outlined the entire map itself in vibrant color and drawn roses around the edges. Crumbling up the worksheet with one hand, he sighed and tossed it into the trash can at his feet.

"Nothing."

* * *

.

.

.

* * *

 **\- A/N -**

 ** _Reference(s):_**

 **[1] Although they helped fight against the Central Powers, the United States classified themselves as an "Associated Power" instead of formally joining the Allies.**

 **~ Reviews are appreciated ~**


	11. ten

**\- A/N -**

 **Congratulations, you made it to the next-to-last chapter. You deserve a cookie for reading through 20K words of my utterly subpar writing.**

 **(Except I don't have one...)**

* * *

 _11\. World War II_

* * *

 _...This duty of war, all the men who are here and all those who hear us in France know that it demands national unity. We, who have lived the greatest hours of our History, we have nothing else to wish than to show ourselves, up to the end, worthy of France._

 _\- Charles de Gaulle on August 1944, in a speech regarding the liberation of Paris_

* * *

 **Chapter Ten**

 ** _June 12, 1940_**

 ** _On the English Channel_**

In his dream world, all was calm.

He sat on a platform of bare steel, hands folded across his lap. Stretching away in every direction was a barrier of mist, foreboding in all its silence. There was something unnerving about the unabridged emptiness, and yet France ignored it.

 _Run,_ pleaded his subconscious.

 _(ignore. there's nothing out here in this lonely field.)_

 _Get up,_ came the faint whisper.

 _(ignore. no threats here anywhere.)_

 _The calm won't last. It's all in your head._

 _(ignore. you can't take this away from me just when i've finally found my peace.)_

Hands shaking. Eyes squeezed tight. Heart clawing at his chest with every agitated palpitation. This wasn't _calm_. This wasn't _peace_. This was _restlessness_ and _apprehension_ and _strain_ and _suffocation_ and everything he wanted to get away from and _oh-I-can't-breathe-I-can't-breathe-I-can't_ _—_

 _You need to get there before they arrive,_ the voice muttered again. That same voice. He tried to shut it out again, but _goddamn_ was it persistent. _Can't you see it? Your countrymen are already fleeing. You can't hold out much longer, and when they come..._

He tensed.

 _(ignore. ignore. just ignore it all. stay here in the quiet a moment longer. too much noise out there. too much screaming. too much crying. too many dead smiles and hollow cheekbones. when the germans come, i'll be taking a coward's stand three hundred miles away.)_

No. He was fine.

He shouldn't be, but he was fine.

The silence, he found, had a peculiar way of constraining him. Around and around, like the coil of a snake over unsuspecting prey. It stroked his ears, caressed his mind, let his tense body relax into the folds of an invisible blanket. Gave him a safe haven away from the carnage.

 _And then—_

 _And then it begins to squeeze—_

France didn't know when he woke. It was all a blur after that, the voices and the delirium and the faint rocking motion below him. All he knew was that when his eyes snapped open, he wasn't in his bed where he should be.

Instead, he was slumped on the seats of the eight o'clock ferry, staring up at the stretch of sky that separated two nations.

* * *

Two hours later found him on the dark streets of London. The night was ashen, white-hot specks against a pitch canvas and a bitter wind that froze him to the bone. Trying to shake sleep from his mind, France wrapped his coat tighter around himself and squeezed his way through the thinning crowds.

He'd been here before. Not just in the busy commercial centers of the city, but down winding alleyways and lonely street corners that seldom saw human company. Outside of his own country, London was one of the places he visited most often. And perhaps the presence of a certain Arthur Kirkland was the reason for this.

 _Well. This isn't just any visit._

Internally, France winced. The truth was, he shouldn't be here. He should be back in Paris, waiting for the inevitable fall of his city before negotiations began. Just like any dignified, self-respecting Nation should be doing. Instead, he was fleeing—to the home of his old rival, no less. Granted, he'd been given permission to leave, and it wasn't even him who came up with the idea in the first place.

But it still felt wrong.

Maybe it wasn't wise for their personification to fall into enemy hands. Maybe the _Fall Rot_ was bound to succeed, and he would soon be seeing German forces march into Paris. Maybe it was one of the smarter decisions he could make at the moment. Yet the feeling of guilt only increased the closer he got to his destination. What brought him so close to the brink of desperation?

What was different this time?

 _Everything. Everything is different. This isn't just about power or territory or monarchical succession like it was in the past. This is about ideologies. And a year into the war, we are losing._

France paused before the Westminster Abbey as he passed it on the way. Gothic-style columns and arches stood watch over the city, a colossal witness to its thousand-year-old history. With a slight pang, he recalled the day William was crowned king of England, here in this very spot.

He hadn't missed the man much when he died, but France still remembered, just before the coronation, the hope that had briefly flared within him—of a companion, of someone to call a friend. And yet, the moment that the boy in the green cloak turned his back on him, he'd realized that he'd been wrong.

 _...Right?_

Picking up his pace, France shook his head and hurried on.

By the time he finally reached England's place of residence by Trafalgar Square, he suddenly felt more tired than he'd been in years. Staggering up to the front door, rows of neglected petunias brushing against his leg, he raised his hand to the doorbell and paused.

 _What do I do? What am I supposed to say? How could I have the nerve to come here asking for help, knowing full well that I am a Nation who_ _has abandoned his duty?_

Nervous, France ran a hand through his hair absentmindedly and used the other to grip the suitcase he held. It didn't matter. He hadn't come all this way for nothing, and even if England did decide to turn him away, there wouldn't be much he could do about it. He would just have to deal with the consequences himself. And once Paris fell to the 18th Army...

The lock suddenly clicked, and the door slid open before him.

Startled, France quickly tried to compose himself. Arthur Kirkland himself was standing in the doorway, hand on the knob and eyebrows furrowed. Something seemed strange about his appearance, and it didn't take long for him to realize.

"You... were waiting for me?" France asked incredulously.

Indeed, the other Nation was dressed in a smart trench coat, buttoned up all the way to his collarbone. From the clock hanging on the living room wall behind him, it was almost midnight—certainly not the time for such attire.

"Of course I knew you were coming, idiot," England huffed. "Got a message this morning."

France let out a sigh of relief he hadn't even known he was holding. "Ah."

Arthur eyed him curiously, but didn't make a comment.

"I suppose you lot aren't holding out well?"

"They've already declared Paris an open city," France reported bitterly. "And I've heard about the surrender of your 51st Division today."

England sighed, scratching the side of his head wearily. "I really should get back to duty as soon as possible. It was Rommel again, wasn't it?"

"Rommel," Francis confirmed.

"Thought so."

He studied the other Nation's expression for a moment, then dropped his gaze.

Grasping the handle of France's suitcase, Arthur gently pried his fingers loose and took it from him. "I'll take care of this," he stated flatly. "Get inside."

France smiled weakly, dipping his head.

As he passed his longtime adversary, he noted how their eyes were level with each other. And he realized that the England he knew today stood on equal ground with him.

* * *

It was all a blur after that—a myriad of hazy recollections and unfocused images. Francis suspected that alcohol had been introduced at some point, especially as he'd woken up the next morning on the floor with a pounding headache. All he remembered from the night before was a drunken 'conversation' around the dinner table, their rivalry temporarily forgotten.

 _Honestly, fuck this,_ England had muttered. _Fuck their National Socialist Kraut Worker's Party and their miserable führer_ _. Fuck it all._

In fact, France couldn't even remember if he had been informed of Arthur's departure, because the Englishman certainly wasn't anywhere in the house by morning. To his surprise, a stab of loneliness shot through his heart. Being alone for any long period of time was never his strong suit, but he still felt concerned over the fact that he missed England's company.

 _After a thousand years of hatred, no less._

Arriving at the end of the hallway to a closed door, France turned the knob and peered inside.

 _Ah, I nearly forgot. Arthur had a library here._

It wasn't particularly impressive. The slanted ceiling and tiny windows made it seem much smaller than it really was, but the bookcases were nearly filled to the brim with paperback novels and the occasional leather bound journal. Frowning, France gingerly stepped inside. _I haven't hated him in centuries, if ever,_ he corrected. _At least, no_ _t since Jeanne._

Because he didn't truly hate any Nation. How could he, when they were all prisoners in the same cell? Immortality gave them fear—a fear for the loss of love and companionship that would never go away. And so they turned to each other, the only beings who would ever understand their pain.

 _Except humans hate._

 _And humans fight._

 _And they draw dividing lines in the sand that didn't exist before._

 _And they lust—for shining metal deep in the earth, for power, for the illusion of power. And their animosity is our animosity, for without them, there is no us._

 _Yet we have memories. We have fond recollections of the Other Side when there is no place for lenience in war. It is what keeps our minds from being slaves to the collective, that thought that perhaps the Other Side had no choice._

 _That none of us do._

One journal in particular suddenly caught his eye. It was squeezed into the very end of the row, as if it could fall at any moment. Removing it from the bookshelf, France opened it and flipped to the last page where there was writing.

 _I'm tired_ _,_ was all it said.

The rest of the page was blank.

He frowned, then shrugged—he probably shouldn't even be looking in here. Quickly, he slammed the cover shut and put it back on the shelf.

* * *

On June 14, 1940, Paris finally fell to the German forces. He wasn't surprised. France had woken up that morning feeling even worse than the day before, having fallen into a fitful sleep on the couch with hardly a blanket.

The previous evening, he'd received a call from the house telephone, a tired-sounding England greeting him on the other end. He'd explained the cause behind his absence—a meeting that he'd been called upon to attend at the last minute. "It was the Anglo-French Coordinating Committee," Arthur had continued. "Your Jean Monnet wanted to discuss something with us."

France raised an eyebrow, distractedly trying with one hand to tie his hair back into a ponytail. "Well?"

"I-I mean, it's complicated," England stammered. Suddenly, his voice grew hesitant, as if he couldn't quite find a way to formulate the words he wanted to say. "I only just heard about it. He was proposing a plan to Chamberlain and Morton about, uh..."

"About what?"

"A possible political union. You know, between the both of us."

Silence fell on the other end of the line.

"Of course, nothing's been decided yet," England quickly added. "But if this happens, we might be able to convince Reynaud and his cabinet to keep the war going from North Africa. It won't end well if you drop out of the fight this early."

"And why are you telling me now? To ask for my opinion?" France sounded skeptical. "It will not matter to them anyway."

"Believe me, I know," England growled, lowering his volume. "We don't have a voice. Not really."

There came another long period of quietude. He heard the scraping of a chair somewhere on the other end, and the hushed sound of muttered words. Somewhere out there, he knew, England was holding the telephone to his ear, probably off to the side of a conference room. Somewhere out there, his friend was waiting for the response to a question that would be answered without them.

France gritted his teeth. His _friend_. Not his enemy.

His _friend_.

"A possible union, mm? We have come a long way in such a short time, Angleterre."

His voice sounded strained. Forced. But also soft.

"Just over a hundred years ago, I thought that we would be enemies for all eternity. And yet here we are, allies under the same cause. We have not fought for over than a century... and nor have I gained any more bullet wounds."

He could practically see England stiffen. His words were bitter, though his tone was gentle. A single contradiction that spoke volumes.

And then he heard a deep sigh.

"I'm sorry."

It might have been the tone rather than the words itself that convinced him. France didn't press the issue. The apology was a century overdue, but still genuine. The tension had fed on their subconscious for years, festering in the wake of their neglect—and he realized how glad he was to finally address the issue.

"For what?" he ventured.

England chuckled sadly. The sound was enough to make him regret saying anything, but it was already too late. "For that time I shot you in 1815, yes. But that's not all."

"Oh?"

"It's for everything I've ever done to you. Not just you personally, but also you as a nation. I'm proud to have served under my country for so long, but truth be told, I..."

Here, England let out a long breath. "I wouldn't want to fight you again."

He paused, as if wanting to let the words sink in. France nearly dropped the telephone in surprise as his hands struggled to keep hold of it. "W-why?"

"Because it gets so bloody tiring," England replied quietly, eliciting a faint smile from the other Nation. "Doesn't it? Sometimes I get reminded of the early days of the Hundred Years' War, and I'd wonder what exactly I was fighting for. Why did I care so much about what a few kings wanted, out of the millions that I represented?"

"And what about now?"

"Well, we have to defend our homelands, don't we? And I don't know about you, but I would always do my best to protect my people, whether or not anyone else joins me."

A thoughtful pause followed this statement.

And then France murmured, "Je suis désolé aussi."

England didn't ask what for. It could have been any number of things, but he smiled knowingly anyway. "I know," he said. "I need to go soon. I'll call you later."

"You seem more sentimental than usual today," France noted.

Arthur muttered something under his breath, but didn't counter this. "Just tired," he said. "Goodnight, Francis. Stay safe."

"Ah, so a lovely parting farewell between two lovers?" he laughed teasingly. "Is that what this is?"

"Dear lord. I shudder at the thought."

France was almost about to blow mock kisses at him, when he remembered that England couldn't see him. Somehow, being reminded of their distance made his heart twist more painfully than he would have liked.

"Ah well, you too. Au revoir."

"Au re... I mean, goodbye."

England briefly cracked a smile. A stark contrast to the atmosphere in the room behind him.

The receiver was put back in its place.

The cord hung over the table, limp and still.

And the line went dead.

* * *

 _there are questions in the world we don't know the answer to._

* * *

He knew that human lives were short, almost laughably so. Sometimes the remnants of their existence could be erased faster than bloodstains on his uniform.

Yet some were determined to leave behind a legacy. A choice that changed the world, or perhaps just little things that spoke to their being: a doll, a battered trophy, scattered thoughts in four-inch paper binding. France had always held a certain admiration for humans—not just for what they had, but for what they did. They were an active part of the world, instead of the lonely observer that he'd grown to see himself as.

 _The only thing he held onto were memories. He held onto gurgling rivers and dappled leaves and long sunset shadows. He held onto clashing swords and faded flags and ashes in the water. He held onto the reminiscence of a simpler time that had never been simple._

* * *

 _and we don't pretend to know._

* * *

Humans did unspeakable things. It was an undeniable fact, as real as those civilians who fled for London bomb shelters in the dead of night.

And yet it was also them who fought for his liberation, every step of the way. It was humans throughout history who toppled regimes, lent their brethren a helping hand, and sacrificed bits of themselves they never realized they had. Because it was them who kept fighting—rifle in hand, sleeves rolled up, the sun beating down on their weathered helmets.

 _Do they believe in the cause they fight for? Do they even know what the cause is, or was their decision merely borne out of desperation?_

France might never know.

Days bled into weeks and months and years. He collected newspapers as they piled up against the door, searching for the day in which the tides would turn. And with each passing day, he felt more and more certain that his friend would never give up.

 _Friend._

It almost seemed like a foreign word to use for the stubborn Nation, but he could think of no other alternative. The Englishman known as Arthur Kirkland had changed in his eyes—no longer just his sneering rival but a real person with hopes and fears and broken pieces. Changed, like everything else.

Sometimes France thought back to his mother. And he realized that not all change was bad.

* * *

 _so come._

* * *

 ** _._**

 ** _Four years after the armistice of June 22, which French officials signed at_** ** _Compiègne_** ** _with Nazi Germany,_ _Paris was liberated. Fighting still resumed in many parts of the country, but Charles de Gaulle was able to retake control of France._**

 ** _There were thousands of casualties on both sides. In the end, 12,800 German prisoners were taken._**

 **.**

* * *

 _follow along..._

* * *

 ** _August 26, 1944_**

 ** _Paris, France_**

"Well? Is he here?" England demanded. "Est-il ici?"

The receptionist's eyes abruptly darted up, startled. All around them was a bustle of activity—a crowd of anxious mothers, a wounded soldier being carried on taut stretchers, a handful of military guards gathered around the front entrance.

But no France.

 _No shining golden locks or bright blue eyes here. Not even the tangled mess of hair he'd sported a week ago._ The fact that Francis had stopped taking care of his appearance was startling, to say the least. Again, England thought back to the disheveled man from his recent memory and visibly winced.

"Name?"

"I've already told you," Arthur said impatiently. "Francis Bonnefoy."

Before the receptionist could say anything else, he whipped out his government-issued identity card. At the top were the clearly bolded words: _Diplomatic Assistant, Arthur Kirkland._

"As you can see, this is a matter of—um—" England stammered.

 _Emergency? Diplomatic importance? What the hell do I say?_

The receptionist looked him up and down with a raised eyebrow, taking in the growing line behind him.

And then, to his surprise, she sent him a weary but sympathetic smile.

"Mr. Bonnefoy was just released from the hospital this morning," she informed him with a mild accent, crossing her arms. "Only mild injuries. In fact, I don't believe he has left just yet. He may be somewhere on the rooftop. Have you checked—"

"Thank you, ma'am," England interrupted.

He swiped up his card and dashed toward the stairs.

* * *

 _...take my hand..._

* * *

Out of breath, he nearly knocked over a pot of daisies as he stumbled onto the open-air landing. "Francis?" he called out.

Nothing.

England scanned the vicinity with wide eyes. Aside from the low railings and flower pots, the minimal rooftop garden appeared to be empty. "Fran—"

And then he saw him.

Feet dangling over the edge, a cast still on his arm, the personification of the Republic of France sat with his back to England. Except he wasn't a Nation in his eyes, at least not in that moment, just someone who'd laughed and bantered and suffered and bled alongside him for as long as he could recall.

The next thing Arthur knew, he was sitting himself down right next to him.

And that was when France finally turned around.

It was exactly what England had been fearing for, and yet somehow different. His expression flickered momentarily to one of surprise, but tinted with hope—and dark rings circled his eyes, but the fire that shone in them was undeniable. Slowly, as if it hurt to speak, he murmured, "Angleterre?"

"I can't believe you really joined them," England said disbelievingly. "Not that... you know, I blame you."

They could still hear joyous shouting in the distance. It sparked a peculiar sense of warmth inside him, although he knew that the war was still far from over. Where the sunset burned the tips of the buildings in a fiery display of gold and blue, England was suddenly reminded of the nuances of their strange relationship—how everything contradicted itself and looped back around to haunt them for centuries. And for the first time, he found himself coming to terms with the fact that he _cared_.

"Is it not beautiful?" France said, chuckling lightly, closing his eyes. "Yet bitter at the same time, like a painful reminder of things to come."

In another time, England might have scoffed at this cryptic remark. But something stopped him, and it wasn't just the lump growing in his throat.

Instead, he smiled back.

"I know," he said.

And he threw his arms around him.

* * *

 _...and let us find out together._

* * *

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

* * *

 **\- A/N -**

 **I'm sorry this ended up being so long.**

 _ **Reference(s):**_

 **[1] The Fall Rot (Case Red) was the second part of the plan on the invasion of France.**

 **[2] And yes, there really was a proposed Anglo-French union. Obviously, this was unsuccessful and was quickly shot down.**

 _ **Translation(s):**_

 **[1] Est-il ici? - Is he here?**

 **Is that right? My practically nonexistent understanding of French still can't tell if this is grammatically correct.**

 **god this is embarrassing**

 **Also, I want to give my deepest** **thanks to the few people who are still reading. Thank you so much for taking time out of your life to tolerate my shenanigans. And if someone drops by a review (even a short one!)** **, my life will pretty much be complete haha.**

 **(pretty pleeeeeaaaaase?)**

 **Anyway, epilogue coming up soon...**


	12. epilogue

**\- A/N -**

 **Thanks again to everyone here—not just to those who reviewed (although the support is very much appreciated!)** **, but also everyone who happens to be reading this right now. Especially since this is my first Hetalia fic, and I wasn't really sure anyone would be interested in this sort of thing.**

 **Anyway, here we go. It's way too short, but what can I say?**

* * *

 _12\. Present Day_

* * *

 **Epilogue**

 ** _Paris, France_**

When his phone froze for the third time that day, England felt like chucking it against it the bus stop window.

"Where the bloody hell am I supposed to go, Francis?" he half-shouted.

Several nearby commuters edged away from him on the bench, and one shot him a dirty look, but he hardly cared. It was France's fault yet again—his fault that England was lost and his fault that he was going to be late for the World Meeting. And just when he'd tried contacting him, his phone had started acting up again.

One finger pressed against the power button, the screen still stubbornly frozen, England glanced at the concrete sidewalk and wondered whether a nice quick toss would leave permanent cracks on the phone.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a cheerful voice suddenly informed him.

Startled, England looked up. It wasn't who he was looking for, but the peculiar sight certainly made him gape. The tall woman standing in front of him looked faintly like a time traveler who'd tried and failed to fit into the immediate surroundings—her hairstyle made her look several decades older than she really was, and she'd quite obviously put her sweater on inside out.

"Ma'am?" he managed to get out. "Who—"

A six-year-old boy on the other end of the bus stop began whispering something to his parents, a stubby finger pointing towards England. Abruptly, he realized that people were beginning to stare, and yet no one seemed to pay any attention to the strange woman. Heart pounding in his throat, he took a closer look at her.

She seemed partly transparent, he realized.

"You're... a ghost?" he ventured, trying to ignore the whispering behind him.

The woman laughed. "Am I?"

"What?"

Turning to face the busy Parisian traffic, she ignored his inquiry. "You know, I never thought I'd become a stranger in my own land," she mused. "Though I don't suppose that this is my land anymore."

Sighing, she continued. "I should have realized it earlier. I was always one for denial."

England opened his mouth to reply, and then suddenly stopped.

He reconsidered her words again. Took in her long blonde hair, her strange accent, her strong, graceful arms, even the way she stood in front of him so casually. As if she were just a curious visitor.

And then it finally clicked.

"You're..."

"Well, I do have to be going," the woman said, shooting him a blinding grin. She was already walking away, awkwardly oversized high heels clicking on the sidewalk as her hair swished in the breeze. "Take care of Francis for me, will you? And by that, I mean try not to kill him."

"Wait!"

In a last desperate attempt to catch sight of her, England rose from the bench and craned his head forward. But there was nothing.

* * *

By the time England finally got his phone to work, he'd already boarded the bus that would hopefully take him to his destination. Tapping on Francis's name in his list of contacts, he quickly typed up a brief message and hoped that he'd taken the right route.

The reply came just a few minutes later.

 **You're on the wrong side of the city, my friend.**

England made a mental note to strangle him when he got to the meeting place. **And you're complete rubbish at giving directions,** he texted back. **Why the hell did I agree to hold the meeting here again?**

Glancing out the window at the scenery around him, England considered for a moment whether to tell France about what he'd seen. And then he realized that there was no point in doing so now. If they were going to discuss anything, he would rather they do it face-to-face. And besides, he still had a World Meeting to get to on time.

As he prepared to get off at the next stop, England paused with a finger on the screen.

 _One last message,_ he decided.

The winding streets of a country he once considered enemy rushed past him in a blur; and just before he put his phone back into his pockets, he told France that he was coming.

* * *

 _ **Fin.**_

* * *

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

* * *

 **\- A/N -**

 **everything was described so blandly cuz sadly, i've never set foot once in europe.**

 **Also, I'm sure you can all figure out who that woman was.**

 _ **Bonus:**_

 **(from Wikipedia) The Droste effect (Dutch pronunciation: [ˈdrɔstə]), known in art as _mise en abyme_ , is the effect of a picture recursively appearing within itself, in a place where a similar picture would realistically be expected to appear.**

 **Take a guess. Why did I make this the title?**

 **(Haha, part of it was just me trying to sound educated by using such an obscure term. But I did try to weave in some themes in a way that might fit the title in a more abstract manner. Although it probably just ended up being confusing/pretentious.** **Congrats to those who have figured it out already!)**


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